Sign of the Cross
by JeanTre16
Summary: In the sequel to Swordplay, Jacqueline wrestles with her identity and the meaning behind 'The Sign of the Cross'
1. Chapter 1

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 1**

**A D'Artagnan**

**Chapter Description:** Being a d'Artagnan is Jacqueline's only surety when her cross raises questions of her past.

A d'Artagnan was the only thing Jacqueline knew for certain she was. The man she now called her husband had stood by her side unwavering almost from the moment she had met him. She had been reluctant to share her heart with him at the start. He had managed to annoy her beyond reason. But she had gradually grown to need him. There was no one else she would have preferred to share her most intimate thoughts with. God had been sovereign when he had brought them together that day she had entrusted this man with her secret—her first secret. There had been a list of other secrets since then, and he had stood by her in all of them. He had been her rock. Everything else but her present life as a d'Artagnan seemed to fade as an eluding dream. Her childhood, family and prior life on the farm had vanished with the stroke of a sword. The once farm girl looked in the full length mirror at her form. "Who am I?" she wondered aloud.

Jacqueline pondered over the questions in her head. Just how much did King Louis know about her? Did he know Jacques Leponte was the same as Jacqueline Roget d'Artagnan? He had referred to her as "d'Artagnan" in the throne room on the day of her acquittal. Louis knew she was the one the legend's son had married. Was that why he had given her such a strained look? Did the king detest that his most trusted Musketeer would willingly marry a murderess? The woman accused "as such" shuddered at the humiliating thought. She hoped her king would not think of her in such a despicable way. Would the consequences of her revengeful reaction to her father's murder ever leave her? Would she ever be rid of the stigma of murdering Cardinal Mazarin's guardsman? God had preserved her life for a reason by moving the newly crowned ruler to pardon her, but why did she still feel _wanted_? She sighed.

King Louis. Now there was yet another mystery to the meditating woman. He apparently knew something about her that she did not. She assumed his note alluded to the importance of the cross pendant she wore around her neck. Almost as an afterthought on the day of her acquittal, Louis had jotted down a few obscure words to hand to d'Artagnan for delivery to Jacques Leponte. The king had given her husband the letter, even though its destined recipient had been right there by his side. It was true that the pardon request had originated from the absent Musketeer, her alias, but it was Jacqueline the pardon was for. Why had her king not handed it directly to her? Why had he addressed the letter to Leponte? There were so many questions that lacked answers.

The puzzled woman took the scrolled up note from her dresser and stared at it. As if by looking hard enough at it, she thought it would somehow reveal a secret inscription holding all the answers to the riddle of her life. Shaking her head, she relinquished her gaze. "Another mystery." She mused. But this mystery seemed to alarm her the most. Until Louis's note, Jacqueline had known who she was.

Even when her brother had returned from America to bring her the disturbing words of a dying priest, she had not questioned who she was. Gerard had told her that a priest from Nova Scotia had recognized her cross that she had given him. Father Barsec had confessed on his death-bed that his guilt for what he had done caused him to flee France. Jacqueline winced at the painful memory of how her beloved brother's delivering that message to her had cost him his life.

What soul-wrenching crime this Father had committed against a mere baby remained a perplexing mystery. Jacqueline wondered what terrible thing he had done to require her forgiveness. She had no memory of anything disturbing in her past. Although Gerard's troubling revelation made no sense to her, it had not caused her to question her identity like the note the king had written. Louis' note and the dead priest's fragmented messages had only left open-ended threads leading nowhere in answering the unrequited woman's troubling questions.

Jacqueline unrolled Louis' note and read the words, _"The sign of the cross warranted full pardon. Guard the secret at all cost."_ The king had left the note unsigned, which lent to its gravity all the more. Aside from them witnessing his writing of the words in person, the contents were not meant to be an official edict representing the throne. It was a personal note. But what did he mean by it? The priest's words had not implied she was anything but a deeply wronged infant; but King Louis' words suddenly raised the question to one of royal importance. What secret of a farm girl's past would warrant her immediate pardon of murder by the king? Once again Jacqueline wondered about her past. "Who am I?"

To her knowledge, she had grown up the daughter of Claude and Matilde Roget. Her brother had been Gerard Roget. She had been a simple farm girl with dreams of fighting a noble cause like the great d'Artagnan. For the first time that morning a memory brought a faint smile to her sullen face. She recalled Gerard and her midday duels in the barn where she would never accept anything less than winning the prized title of being the legendary Musketeer. From there she recalled a later conversation where she had told her brother she had wanted to _be _him, not _marry_ him. How strangely different that youthful girl's ambitions had turned out. She _was_ a d'Artagnan now. And she was learning that while most of her life had been apparently thrust upon her without choice, being a d'Artagnan was one thing that she had passionately and willingly chosen.

"Jacqueline?" d'Artagnan's voice made its way into her consciousness. The daydreaming woman startled to see her husband standing before her with a tray of food. She had not been aware of how detached her thoughts had made her. He placed the steaming meal on the small rustic table and sat beside her on the bed. Fondly, he brushed the hair aside from her face and gently clasped her cheek in his palm. "How are you feeling today?" he asked with concern.

Three weeks had passed since the night of her brutal abduction and the following day of her acquittal. Jacqueline's physical wounds were healing quickly, thanks to Siroc's meticulous care. The man that had become her private physician had traveled the distance from the garrison to the Roget farm nearly every day to oversee her recovery. Yet, it was Jacqueline's emotional wounds that troubled her husband the most. His wife seemed distant most of the time. Like today, he would often catch her thoughts far off. It troubled him to see the woman that he knew to be so full of life suddenly so withdrawn.

Realizing the silence between them and her husband's furrowed concern, Jacqueline attempted to improve the atmosphere. "I'm feeling much better today, thank you. You and Siroc have been spoiling me rotten." Trying to get his doting attention off herself, the reluctant patient looked at the tray and asked, "What's for breakfast?"

Jacqueline's effort succeeded. D'Artagnan jumped to his feet and flamboyantly presented the tray of food before her. "Eggs Roget, from the Roget hen-house, and warmed toast with wild honey, compliments of the Arnaud neighbors, Your Majesty."

Jacqueline was thankful for his undistracted devotion he displayed to her. She could only imagine where she would be without him. It had been him who had first discovered her secret identity being Jacqueline Roget—wanted for the murder of the Cardinal's guard. He had unhesitatingly believed her once she told him the truth. He had also vowed to keep her secret. Beyond that, he had time and time again shown her his noble heart by putting himself in harms way in her stead. His wife thought how blessed she was to have such a man for a husband.

"Do you think you may be up for a walk?" D'Artagnan once again broke into her wandering thoughts.

"A walk?" she responded. "Where are we going?"

"Actually, it wouldn't be with me." D'Artagnan again took a seat beside her. Placing a napkin in her lap, he expounded, "Queen Anne has requested a walk with you in her garden this afternoon."

"The queen?" Jacqueline's expression showed her surprise.

"Yes, well, don't let it go to your head. I'm sure she's only interested in meeting you because you're married to the beloved d'Artagnan," he teased, with a mock sense of arrogance.

Jacqueline responded by rolling her eyes and smacking him on the head with a pillow she grabbed from behind him on the bed. She used to take this kind of comment seriously before she saw through it to his pretense. He had a wry sense of humor and a wit that people other than those closest to him often misunderstood. As his best friend and partner in life, she had gotten to know it intimately. And while it was endearing to the man she loved, it also drove her crazy at times. Today it had the former effect. She turned to him and smiled. He did have a way to distract her from the seriousness of life. Siroc may have been instrumental in healing her physical wounds, but they both knew that d'Artagnan would be the one to aid in the healing of her emotional wounds.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 2**

**Familiar Ground**

**Chapter description:** Jacqueline fights to find "familiar ground" for her upcoming palace visit.

Shortly after breakfast, Jacqueline went through the carefully layered dresses packed in her trunk. "What should an ex-Musketeer, farm girl wear to visit the queen?" She mused. This palace engagement was way out of her league, she thought. In the past, she had presented herself many times at the palace as Jacques Leponte—Royal Musketeer. But at least she had been on familiar ground as that role. Now, she would be reintroduced to the Queen-mother as Madame Jacqueline d'Artagnan. How strange that sounded. She had no idea where to begin, let alone choose an appropriate dress for the occasion.

D'Artagnan wandered into the room and took up a reclined position on the bed to watch. "So are you finding anything sumptuous enough in that coffer of yours?"

His agitated wife shot him a frown of disapproval, and replied, "You're not helping, you know."

"All right!" He lifted his hands in back-offish manner. "I'll just lie here and watch." D'Artagnan thought how being married had its advantages. At least he no longer felt the need to hide his enticement of seeing Jacqueline undressed. He wondered if he would ever confess to her the times before they were married when he had _compromised_ her modesty and stolen glimpses of her not fully clothed. 'Someday,' he thought, but this was not the time for such confessions.

Captivated, he watched his beautiful wife sort through her clothing. Although he respected her impeccable taste, he had seen her wear some surprises—like the "borrowed" nobleman's suit she had on the first day they had met. Since then he had seen her don a Musketeer's uniform, a bright red dress and blond wig in portrayal of an upper middle-class heart-breaker, and even a work-maid's dress. The enticed onlooker had to admit the most enchanting, yet his least favorite surprises were the dresses she had chosen to wear for the temporarily exiled King Charles II, heir to the throne of England. Those dresses, no doubt, were in that trunk too, but most of what Jacqueline leafed through today had been acquired while in Marseille. D'Artagnan's father had afforded his daughter-to-be a sizable purse as a wedding gift and insisted the young bride establish a sufficient lady's wardrobe. The young married man watched her now as she placed even the most affluent of those gowns aside.

Seeing his wife clearly having trouble, d'Artagnan ventured to her aid. Jacqueline held up a dark green velvet gown in front of her and looked into the cheval glass mirror. While her private admirer approved of her choice, his eyes rested on a royal blue dress with elegant gold cord accent. Leaving his comfortable spot on the bed, he retrieved the dress and brought it over to her. "Why don't you wear this one?" He came up from behind her, circled his arms around her waist and held it before her figure in view of the mirror. "It compliments your hair and brings out your beautiful eyes. Besides, I've grown to admire you in Musketeer blue."

Jacqueline smiled at his last comment and took a long hard look as she leaned back on him with her head resting on his shoulder. D'Artagnan had already changed into his familiar Musketeer uniform for their day in Paris. Together they looked at the complementary colors of their clothing in the mirror. "So you think this is the winner to wear for an engagement with the queen of France?" she said, surrendered to his opinion.

"If it doesn't impress the queen, at least I can assure you I won't be able to get my eyes off you." He removed the dress he held in front of her and put himself facing her in its stead. Affectionately, he gathered her up in his embrace and kissed her.

After a moment of intimacy an unsettled Jacqueline gently pushed herself away. "I don't know. I'm not sure if I'm really up to it." The timid side of her had not wanted to mention it before. She knew the man who encouraged her inner strength would not want to hear it. But she could not help the way she felt. In truth, the recently acquitted woman was not too keen on facing Queen Anne without first knowing what King Louis's opinion of her was. The thought made facing his mother all the less appealing. Jacqueline wondered just how much of the royal business Louis still shared with his mother. Did she know the secret behind her son's note? She looked at her husband with a look of questioning in her eyes.

"Go." D'Artagnan urged her. "You'll be glad you kept the appointment. Let the Queen-mother of France pamper you for the day." His playful brown eyes encouraged her. Maybe she was wrong about this loyal man's response to her trepidation. In his warm, caring tone of voice, he continued, "I know you're a little jittery still. Give yourself some time. Meanwhile enjoy the palace luxuries. You won't be getting that kind of treatment around here, your royal highness." As he teased her with this last comment, he backed off and playfully landed a swat on her rump.

Startled by his ungentlemanly behavior, she raised her fists in mock challenge. Thinking better of it she hastily grabbed the blue and gold dress and disappeared behind the screen to change. Oh, the man could be so endearing one moment and then so incorrigible the next. He made her fears sound so trivial, as if all their troubles were far behind them. He sounded as if all there was left for them to do was to toss all past cares into the wind and embrace their future together. Jacqueline would have loved to believe that. She _wanted_ to believe that. But somehow she did not. Everything was not all right and she knew it. But why, and what was the reason for her doubt? She pondered over these things as she put on the familiar royal Musketeer-blue colors.

Time quickly passed and the queen's special escort finally arrived at the Roget farm. D'Artagnan graciously took his beautiful wife's hand as she climbed into the carriage. Then he took his place inside as well. Both d'Artagnans had appointments at the palace. While Jacqueline had an engagement with the queen, he had been requested to see the king's land steward on official business. Though he was not told for certain what the business entailed, he presumed his father may have bequeathed property for his daughter-in-law and him to settle down on.

D'Artagnan wondered about his father's hasty departure from Paris and marveled that he had managed time at all to see to such matters as bequeathing land. The man had left on a whirlwind. That characteristic, considered his son, added credibility to his legendary status. It had become his trademark to never stay in one place for long. Charles D'Artagnan had been that kind of father to his son as well. The younger man had accepted that. But this time his father's hasty leave puzzled even his son. Jacqueline had said it most likely had been his preoccupation with his new assignment. But unlike everyone else, in the little time the namesake had spent with his father during his lifetime, he seemed familiar enough with him to see through his pretense. His father had left in a rush and it had been in an air of wanting to leave something behind rather than looking forward to something ahead. The son had never known his relation to be so anxious to leave before.

After his father's departure from Paris, d'Artagnan took Jacqueline to her childhood home for recovery. But aside from them temporarily using the place, it could not and would not ever be legally hers. Even if no one stepped forward to claim it, inheritance by a woman was not permissible in France. In the natural course of events, Gerard would have inherited the farm, but her brother had died. Now, the Roget home would be passed down by law to the next of her father's male kin. The problem lie in that, to his daughter's knowledge, Claude Roget had no brothers. As the property waited to be claimed, d'Artagnan suggested that the familiarity of her former home would be the perfect sanctuary for her to regain her strength and perspective.

As the carriage pulled away from the familiar surroundings of the Roget farmhouse, Jacqueline could not help wonder how strange it all looked. Her former life on the farm seemed so distant, despite the fact that she had spent the last three weeks there. It was no wonder that she felt so detached from the place, everyone she had known associated with that former life was gone. There was nothing familiar about it anymore.

Queen Anne's carriage passed cottages and other farm houses along the way into Paris. Sights of families planting and working in the fields gradually gave way to the bustle of the city. Jacqueline loved Paris. While she had fond memories of her farm upbringing, Paris had been her home recently. Everyone she now cared about other than d'Artagnan was there too. As they pulled into the city she felt she had come home.

Shortly, the ride to the palace had come to an end. Upon pulling up at the carriage house, Jacqueline experienced trouble containing her anxiety. It did not help any that while d'Artagnan's presence was summoned at once, his young wife was asked to await the queen's arrival on the garden terrace.

In the opulence of her surroundings, Jacqueline fidgeted nervously. As a Musketeer, when she had become anxious she had developed the habit of fingering her rapier, but she had no such luxury at hand. Nervously, she raised her hand to her pendant and began to finger that.

"I hope this dress was the right choice," she whispered under her breath. Then wittingly she entertained herself with the conclusion, "If not, I can always blame it on d'Artagnan. He picked it out."

Author's Note: Any feedback would be appreciated. I'm honestly wondering how to interpret the silence... Comments honestly are taken to heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 3**

**Palace Blossoms**

**Chapter Description:** Things are blossoming at the palace other than flowers.

Waiting apprehensively for the queen's arrival, Jacqueline took in the view of the centrically laid out palace garden. Offset by the bluest of skies, the bright flowers vibrated in the backdrop of green lawns, carefully placed fountains, and large baroque figures. Its magnificent sight alone was one to take her breath away. But when the queen made her entrance to the garden terrace, the young visitor's heart stopped. Today, Queen Anne was there to see her—Jacqueline. Quickly remembering herself, she curtsied and said, "Your Majesty."

"Jacqueline," Queen Anne acknowledged. Both stood there looking at a loss for words before Anne recovered herself. "Madame Jacqueline d'Artagnan," she corrected keenly. The queen gestured for her guest to walk with her. As she fussed with the sleeves on her dress she flustered, and said, "I hope I wore the right dress for this occasion."

Her words took the young guest by surprise. Glimpsing at the queen unnoticed, the female no longer in hiding smiled. In relating to Queen Anne for the first time as a woman, she saw a side to this wealthy royal she had not seen before. Jacqueline wondered if she was like that with all her other lady visitors. "You look elegant, Your Majesty," assured the delighted caller. Attempting to overcome her lack of skill at small talk, the un-fledged Madame d'Artagnan reciprocated the queen's mode of conversation. "I was just thinking the same thing about my attire before you walked outside. I must admit, I am a little nervous."

"Jacqueline, dear, there is no need for you to be nervous in my presence." Queen Anne looked at the hesitant young lady and gave her lavish approval. "You look simply exquisite. The lovely blue you're wearing graces your beautiful eyes."

"Thank you, Your Majesty" The relieved listener could not help associating the queen's complement to another one she heard earlier that morning. "That's what d'Artagnan told me."

Queen Anne stopped and looked at her new acquaintance thoughtfully. "Well, a d'Artagnan can always be taken for their word my dear."

There it was again. Jacqueline was astonished at the warmth of the queen's air toward her. It seemed odd, but somehow touching that although the former farm-girl was not even considered of the bourgeois citizenry of France, the queen would address her in such a friendly way.

Jacqueline assumed it was Anne's trusted relationship with her legendary father-in-law and his son that gave her such clout. It was no secret that Queen Anne and Charles d'Artagnan were on good terms; her alias, Jacques Leponte, had witnessed that on the road to Reims for the coronation. Captain Duval also inferred that his former Musketeer captain had established 'ears' in royal places; the newly-made Madame assumed that meant the Queen-mother and her son. The observant woman had seen how Louis idolized the d'Artagnan men. She too, confessed that her being of relation to the famous soldier made her want to pinch herself at times. Perhaps the young Viscompte's wife was right about her acceptance by the queen due to her relationship with the d'Artagnan name. In that case, it was not on her own merit she was accepted, it was on the merit of her father-in-law and her husband. Jacqueline was determined to do nothing aside from what she had already done to discredit them. They deserved that much. They had put their good name on the line for her sake.

Anne and her guest walked on into the blossoming garden. Although Jacqueline had seen it through the eyes of Leponte before, she could not help think how strange it was to be strolling in it, in casual conversation with the queen. Maybe the strangeness was the fact that she was having a casual walk with a woman at all. It was the first time she had done so since her mother had died. She often wondered how it would feel to be in the company of a woman again, as a woman. How peculiar it felt for newly presented d'Artagnan, that her debut attempt in years would be in the presence of the Queen-mother of France.

"I'm thrilled you were able to make it on such short notice." Anne diplomatically filled the awkward silence. "I so much wanted to meet you."

"Me?" Jacqueline sounded amazed. Clearly she was missing some bit of information the queen had on her, beyond her being a d'Artagnan. The only other fact she knew that Queen Anne possessed about her was that she had been accused of killing the Cardinal's captain. And those were hardly terms the royal woman would be enthusiastic about meeting her on.

"Yes, tell me all about yourself," Anne requested, progressing as though she had never witnessed the whole court scene three weeks prior.

Jacqueline wondered how she would begin. What interesting thing could she say about her uneventful life on a farm? Even more absurd would be her explanation of how she spent her most recent past doubling as Musketeer, Jacques Leponte. "There really isn't much to say, Your Majesty," she finally voiced.

Apparently Queen Anne had not minded the brevity of her answer, for she quickly redirected their conversation. Watching Jacqueline fidget with her necklace, she commented, "That must be a very special cross you wear."

Jacqueline's attention sharpened at the queen's mention of her cross. She wondered if Queen Anne's initial attempt to engage her in small talk really masked her underlying intent to wait for the proper moment to say what she was really thinking. "It is special," the young woman answered carefully. "At least to me, anyway." She did not know what it implied to others. She understood it to be an appropriate adornment for a woman's commitment to her God. "It reminds me of my parents and my brother. And that God is with me through all things."

Anne closed her eyes at hearing Jacqueline's words, as if they deeply moved her. "Those are very special things indeed," Anne spoke, welling up with emotion. Then, fanning herself to recompose her poise, she looked into the courageous young woman's eyes, and transferred her sympathy. "Sometimes a simple engraved cross pendant does more to remind us of who we are than anything else we could possess."

Jacqueline wanted to ask her if she knew what significance her cross bore, but honestly, she did not even know if Louis had told his own mother about the note he had written. No, the dying-to-know woman would wait and ask her king in person. And if she were going to be able to speak with King Louis, she had a more pressing question to ask the queen.

Despite her anxiety, the question at the center of Jacqueline's heart had been begging to be asked all morning. It had to be risked. "Your Majesty," she began, cautiously. Queen Anne curiously looked at her apprehensive guest, who was nervously fingering her cross pendant. "Does the king think ill of me?" She went on, without awaiting an answer. "I know he has every right to, considering the circumstances, but it bothers me to think that he might. He is my king and I will always stand loyal to him, whatever he may think of me. I apologize if my question seems forward, Your Majesty, but I really must know." Her nervous eyes danced about in anticipation of an answer.

Queen Anne's response was more gracious than the fearful woman could have expected. The royal hostess stopped and took both of Madame d'Artagnan's hands in her own. And with unanticipated compassion, she said, "Jacqueline, my dear, I can assure you Louis thinks no such thing of you." Becoming slightly choked-up again, the queen added, "Neither do I. Now, you must promise me you will put all such thoughts to rest." Anne quickly released the young woman's hands and attempted to brighten the mood. She smiled at her guest and with a tilt of her head she added, "Come—" and gestured to her guest to walk with her "—let us become acquainted among these lovely spring sights and fragrances."

ooooooo

While Queen Anne and Jacqueline took a turn in the palace garden, d'Artagnan confidently walked the familiar palace halls to the business offices. Just short of the steward's office, Cardinal Mazarin intercepted the Musketeer. "D'Artagnan," the red-clad official spoke. Mazarin opened the steward's door and ushered the soldier in before him.

"Cardinal Mazarin," d'Artagnan reflected the unfeeling address, as he hesitantly walked past the man in red through the steward's door.

"So I hear you're becoming a man of the earth," Mazarin spoke, disdainfully.

D'Artagnan had nothing but a prideful, clueless look to offer the Cardinal in return; for he had no idea what the man in red referenced.

But, before his non-response was noted, Mazarin addressed the man behind the desk. "Colbert, there will be no need for your assistance. I will see to the Viscompte's affairs myself. You may go." He stood beside the man's chair and waited for him to vacate it before taking his place.

While the official named Colbert left the room, d'Artagnan attempted to keep his nonchalant air. "I see you're a man of many talents besides that of your robe, Cardinal." But in truth, he was becoming extremely uncomfortable. He had been asked to see the king's steward regarding land, and suddenly, Cardinal Mazarin was calling the shots. He tried not to let Mazarin read his uneasiness. "The next thing we'll know, you'll be doing pirouettes in the king's ballet," he taunted.

Cardinal Mazarin gave the witty Musketeer a look showing that he was not amused, and took a seat behind the desk. "Now that's exactly the kind of appreciation I'd expect from you, d'Artagnan," Mazarin spoke, unruffled. "But I suppose you already know what this is all about from the king's note he handed you three weeks ago. So let's get on with it, shall we?" He studied the papers on Colbert's desk as if looking for something in particular.

"Three weeks ago?" d'Artagnan questioned, distractedly. He too was looking at the papers on the steward's desk, from an upside-down vantage point. He hoped to glean some idea of what the Cardinal was talking about. Mazarin's word confounded him, since he had only received the notice to come to the palace that morning. It had been included in Jacqueline's invitation to see the queen.

"Yes, at court." Mazarin looked up, noticing with annoyance the young man's prying. "The king told me he handed you a note regarding…"

"Oh, that note." The quick-thinking young man headed him off and casually walked a distance away from the desk to look at a free-standing globe. He suddenly realized that the king had, for some reason, wanted to mislead his Premier as to the true nature of the note he had handed him at the acquittal. King Louis obviously did not want Mazarin to know about his message regarding the _sign of the cross_. If that was the case, then d'Artagnan would certainly not let on otherwise. Louis' words had said to 'guard the secret at all cost.' He was sure that guarding the secret from the Cardinal was a given. "How forgetful of me. It must have slipped my mind. The note that mentioned land, of course." The Musketeer looked disinterestedly at the globe and played along as generically as possible without giving himself away.

"Hmm, yes, land." Mazarin reflected suspiciously. Had he seen d'Artagnan's hesitation and cover up? "You could call it that." Then shuffling through several layers of papers, the Cardinal picked one up and read it aloud, "In the event where no inheritor claims a given title of land—" and the Premier raised just his eyes toward the Viscompte while keeping his head lowered "—no matter how small and insignificant..." Then, lowering his eyes back to the paper, he continued reading, "That land which is unclaimed shall revert in ownership to the king of France." At this point, the enacting official raised the document from the desk and read on, "In such cases, the king of France may do as he pleases with this land, keeping that which he deems desirous, or bequeathing that which he desires a loyal citizen of the crown to hold. Etcetera, etcetera..." Cardinal Mazarin now looked at the rather lost looking king's soldier in the face. "Can you believe all that nonsense, d'Artagnan?" The red-clad man motioned toward the document.

Quickly, the astonished man closed his mouth, which had hung open, and outwardly put up an air of confidence. He wished he knew what the Cardinal was getting at. He thought he was there to claim land his father had given him and now Mazarin was ranting on about land laws and the king's right to redirect land ownership. D'Artagnan could think of no reply, so he gave none.

Cardinal Mazarin set the document down and rose from his seat to expound, "Salic law, which has long dominated the way in which French soil has been allotted, states in short that no _woman_ can inherit land." Mazarin swayed his hand in trivial gesture. "Our king seems to think you and your lovely wife—" the Cardinal paused to look at d'Artagnan "—what's her name?" He gestured for the Musketeer to fill in the blank, as though he did not recall it.

"Jacqueline," the grey and blue uniformed man said with prideful aloofness. He would not permit Mazarin to demean his wife.

"Yes, Jacqueeeline," Mazarin drew out her name disdainfully. "In paraphrased form, our king feels your wife is to have her land; therefore, he has sidestepped the legalities and has requited the title to the d'Artagnan name." The relaying man seemed to find some twisted pleasure in that pronouncement. "How does it feel for a great d'Artagnan to be the proud owner of a cabbage patch?" he asked with a demeaning air.

D'Artagnan did not answer. Such a slanderous comment did not deserve one. While the young man understood that the Roget farm was not a great inheritance for a Viscompte, he saw past Mazarin's crudeness to King Louis's compassionate heart. Jacqueline's precarious inheritance had spoken that the new king was personally involving himself in the settlement of her misfortune. There was no doubt in the Royal Musketeer's mind that His Majesty's gesture had been noble. D'Artagnan understood what it was to be noble, while the red-capped man did not. No, the slighted man resolved he would neither act hastily on the Cardinal's empty insults, nor would he stand there and allow this oppressive man to continue polluting the king's good deed.

Mazarin handed the Viscompte his land title none too soon. D'Artagnan had listened to enough of the man. Once again, he masked his piqued anger in his nonchalant manner. "I'm sorry I don't have time to stay and chat, Your Eminence. We were having such a lovely time."

Mazarin subtly interjected, "Allow me then to walk you out to meet your lovely wife, d'Artagnan." His teeth clenched together in an arrogant smile of pretense that relayed his shrouded malicious intentions.

"No need. I know my way out." The Musketeer walked off before he could hear any more malignancy from the Cardinal's mouth. No doubt, Mazarin wanted the opportunity to belittle Jacqueline to her face. D'Artagnan was not going to give him that pleasure. Aside from that, the concerned husband was not sure his wife was up to such a confrontation just yet. For the time being, the protective man would see to it that the insidious Premier stayed far away from the woman he loved.

Meanwhile, as the young Viscompte made his way to where Jacqueline and Queen Anne were finishing up their garden tour, Cardinal Mazarin's suspicion began to blossom in his palace chambers. His Eminence determined that he would have to watch this Musketeer wife's development of friendships with the Queen-mother and her son. She was now the wife of their favorite Musketeer—d'Artagnan. Such attachments would surely act against him.

Cardinal Mazarin scorned himself for his men's failure in taking care of the Musketeers on the night of Louis' celebration. He scorned himself for having been so foolish concerning this thorn-in-his-side waif. A seed was planted in his heart not to make the same mistake again concerning this woman. She was dangerous to Mazarin; he did not now how, but he knew that she was. He would call a meeting of the order. He would know the secret behind this woman's influence.

ooooooo

In the garden, time had passed quickly and Madame d'Artagnan's afternoon with the queen came to a close. Queen Anne graciously bid her farewell. "Jacqueline, I would very much like it if you came again," she offered, accompanied with a distinguished tilt of her head.

"I'd like that too, Your Majesty," Jacqueline replied. The touched guest smiled and curtsied. She had truly enjoyed her afternoon with this woman.

As Queen Anne retreated to the palace in the wake of her handmaids, Jacqueline strolled slowly toward the carriage house. She drank in deeply of the fresh spring air. Its crisp cleanness filled her lungs with the sweet blossom scents of the palace garden. She loved spring. Spring brought new life and the hope of renewal, and the king's mother's kind words had brought new life and the hope of renewal to Jacqueline. Louis did not despise her. Her Majesty had given her personal affirmation of that. Perhaps her husband was right. Maybe all she needed was a little time to heal. The hope-renewed woman silently thanked God for the second time that day for d'Artagnan. It had been him that urged her to accept the queen's invitation.

"So, how did it go?" d'Artagnan asked, seeming to appear out of nowhere. He had just summoned the carriage before meeting up with his wife to await its preparation.

Jacqueline turned to see her husband standing there and was about to answer, but something behind him in the distance caught her attention. Her focus slowly transformed to a squinted brow as if she was witnessing something she could not figure out the meaning of.

"Jacqueline?" d'Artagnan questioned and looked to see what her distraction was. Together they caught sight of King Louis coming from the palace in the company of a young petite lady. She had large brown eyes with dark brown curls that bounced with her exaggerated movement. Although the couple was not far from them, they were interested in nothing but their own conversation.

"Oh, Louis, would you show me your noble hunting dogs? I shall never have felt I've truly lived until I lay eyes on them for myself." The young lady spoke with animated dramatics.

"Then I shall take you to my kennels at once, Marie," replied an enthusiastic Louis. The young royal offered his arm for his companion to take.

Taking his extended are, the young lady elaborated excitedly, "I do hope they aren't fond of chasing ladies. I dreamt once of being chased by hounds across the lonely moors of Scotland. Although I must confess, I've never personally been to Scotland. I've only read tales of such romantic places in literature books." King Louis and this young woman talked on until they were out of earshot, leaving Jacqueline and d'Artagnan standing there in disbelief at what they had just seen and heard.

"A bit over the top, don't you think?" the bemused man finally spoke.

"To be honest, I'm not sure what to think," Jacqueline replied. "Queen Anne said something about Cardinal Mazarin's niece visiting for the summer. Do you suppose that's her?" Her brow reflectively went up at the thought.

With a look of distaste on his face, he answered, wittily, "It can't be. She doesn't act a thing like the caring Cardinal." D'Artagnan teased sarcastically, but held a look of concern. He had just spent time with the man, and wouldn't put it past him to offer his blood kin to the impressionable new king as political leverage.

"She seems young and innocent enough, and oddly she seems more his type than Princess Tatiana was. But then, if she's Mazarin's niece…?" Jacqueline left her observation open-ended.

"Yes, her and Mazarin," the jesting man agreed with an amused frown. "Let's hope they don't have anything more in common besides _dogs_." D'Artagnan eyed the couple then looked back at his wife.

"Nice comparison." Jacqueline gave her witty husband a jab in the ribs to his last comment. She knew he had insinuated Mazarin to be a dog.

"What? What'd I say?" d'Artagnan defended in clueless mockery, rubbing his side where she had elbowed him.

From a palace window, another set of eyes watched the engrossed couple make their way to the kennel. The Premier, too, was anxious concerning the young king and his niece. So far his seditious plan was going well. There were more things abloom than flowers at the palace this spring.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sign of the Cross**

_By JeanTre16_

**Chapter 4**

**A Musketeer's Life**

**Chapter Description: **_Jacqueline finds herself in a unique position._

Jacqueline practically upset the carriage when she plowed into d'Artagnan after he told her the good news about her family farm. She hugged him fiercely. Then with her arms still draped over his shoulders a look of inspiration came over her face. "Let's not go back to the farm just yet." The excited woman spoke as though the news had just given her an electric charge.

"For being so excited about owning your family's property, you sure have a funny way of showing it," d'Artagnan said, looking confused. "Are you sure you don't want to head back there and celebrate by spending the night on your own soil?"

"Don't get me wrong, I am excited." Jacqueline sought for the words. "It's just that I thought we'd share the good news with Captain Duval, Siroc and Ramon. There's no rush to get back to the farm. It's not going anywhere. And now that I'm feeling better, I'd really like to spend some time in Paris." She pieced her request together with convincing persuasion. "Besides, the captain has been letting you off easy. You're going to have to go back to patrolling sooner or later. I'm really doing fine and you can't expect me to be your excuse for much longer."

D'Artagnan gave Jacqueline a long hard look. She did look in much higher spirits than just that morning and he had no intention of compromising her improvement. "All right, Paris it is!" He rapped on the coach's ceiling and called out, "Coachman, take us to the Musketeer garrison."

A muffled, "Yes, Sir," was heard and a sudden change in direction of the carriage was felt.

Jacqueline reflected. "Even though I'm grateful and happy for owning the farm and it does bring as good a closure as can be expected to my family's senseless ending, I'm still not ready to settle there." In momentary silence, all that could be heard was the sound of the jostling carriage as she studied her husband's face. Disconnectedly, she voiced her searching thoughts. "Is it wrong of me not to want to farm the land, but still want to hold the property?"

"No." D'Artagnan gave her a forthright reply. In truth, he had not actually connected owning the farm with the thought of farming it. "There's nothing wrong with knowing the outcome of the property your parents and brother are laid to rest on."

Jacqueline sighed. "Knowing the property is in our control does give me some condolence. But owning it is not enough for me to want to return to live there. I guess that's what I feel bad about."

"Jacqueline, with all due respect to the dead, you've got your own life to live. I know they wouldn't expect you to stay there to watch over their graves."

In a moment of realization Jacqueline confessed, "D'Artagnan, I know you're right. But, it's not only knowing that I don't want to live on the farm _now_, it's the dream that's pulled my heart toward Paris since I was a child that I can't ignore. I can't explain it, but I still want the Musketeer life. I _can't_ go back to the farm right now. I need the energy of Parisian life until I figure this out."

"Until _we_ figure this out," d'Artagnan corrected. "We're in this together, remember, we're married now." Then in his wry way he added, "Well, Paris certainly is the place to find trouble." The rogue had to admit to himself, Jacqueline sure had a knack for attracting mishaps. And he confessed that he would have it no other way. It brought adventure to his life that made his father's tales sound lackluster.

With the weight of this realization off Jacqueline's shoulders, her look lightened. Mischievously she looked at her noble Musketeer husband and teased, "I also cannot see you a farmer."

D'Artagnan gave her a look of bewilderment. "I don't know. How hard can it be to grow cabbages?" he asked. Obviously the career option had never crossed his mind.

Jacqueline laughed heartily at the entertaining thought of seeing her husband a cabbage farmer. "You don't want to know," was all she offered. From her heartfelt laugh, the returning woman looked hungrily out the carriage window at the approaching garrison.

"What is it, Jacqueline?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Oh, it's nothing." The reminiscing female soldier shook the longing off. "I just really miss being a Musketeer. I know I'll never be Jacques Leponte again. I never really intended being him in the first place. It was all a cover to hide from Mazarin. But now that it's behind me, I really do miss everything about it." Jacqueline smiled at her husband.

"I know you do. To tell the truth, I wish we could still be there together too." With a look of sincerity, he took her hand and squeezed it. Just then, the carriage jolted lightly to a stop.

Having reached their destination, Jacqueline looked lovingly into his warm brown eyes and stated, more than asked, "D'Artagnan, have I told you how much you've blessed me lately?"

ooooo

Ramon and Siroc happened to be standing in the courtyard when the palace carriage pulled up. Unsure of whom or what its arrival brought, they both stood attentively. Seeing d'Artagnan step from within to extend his hand for his beaming companion to emerge, brought them both to the carriage in an instant.

A warm reunion commenced before Jacqueline could ask, "Is Captain Duval here?"

"I believe he's in his office," Siroc revealed. "Let's give him a fright at seeing the four of us back together. He deserves it. Things have been a little too quiet and orderly around here."

"Right," d'Artagnan acknowledged with a smirk. He liked Siroc's way of thinking.

"Come on—" Jacqueline redirected the group, glowing "—we have some good news we'd like to share with all of you."

"Senorita!" Ramon exclaimed. "Are you expecting?" The shock Ramon wore could not be contained as he sought for a clue from either d'Artagnan or Jacqueline.

"That's _not_ the news," d'Artagnan chided and slapped Ramon on the arm. "But when it is, we promise you two will be the first to know."

"Stop stalling," Siroc verbally poked. "Are we going to stand here all day and guess, or are we going to wake the captain up from his paperwork so we can all know what it is?"

Siroc's encouragement was enough to move the small company to approach Duval's office door. D'Artagnan knocked loudly and voiced, "Captain?"

"D'Artagnan! Is that you?" rumbled an irritated voice from behind the closed door.

"Yes, Sir," the hesitant soldier replied and waited. The captain's cranky voice made his reconsider the timing of their visit. He exchanged concerned looks with the others and whispered, "Maybe we should come back later?"

"Well, blast, d'Artagnan! Are you coming in or not?" the agitated voice prodded, expectantly.

Unsure of the reasoning behind the captain's sour disposition, d'Artagnan and his company mustered themselves before opening the door. When Captain Duval saw that there were four of them, he commented, "I should have known you came as a package deal. Well, come on." Duval gestured for the group to enter. Still in a cross mood, he ordered, "Jacqueline, you take a seat. The rest of you can stand." Once they were all in and the door was closed, the older man proceeded, "What graces me with all four of you at the same time?"

"D'Artagnan and Jacqueline have some news for us," Ramon offered.

"Are you expecting?" queried an astounded Duval, the tension leaving his face momentarily as he lit up.

"No!" all four responded in unison to the captain's shock.

Duval resumed his frown. "Then what is it?" he demanded.

The couple spent the next hour relaying all that had transpired at the palace beginning with the farm title. When they had finished, Duval paced the floor uncomfortably. "I'm thrilled about your farm, Jacqueline, but I share d'Artagnan's concern for your safety. Cardinal Mazarin is licking his wounds right now regarding your acquittal. The man has an aggravated dislike of you and you'll need to be careful."

After addressing Jacqueline, he addressed them all, "As for Mazarin's niece, Marie, I was aware of her presence at the palace, and have been in foul-minded deliberation all morning as to what to do about it. Blast Mazarin! Does he never quit with his schemes?" Duval steamed. "If he were to grip the king in a relationship with his niece, he could usurp power over the throne for generations to come. And there would be nothing we could do to stop it." He slammed his fist down on the desk emphatically.

Then as abruptly as he released his frustration, he broke off his train of thought. "Ramon, Siroc, if I might have a word alone with Jacqueline and d'Artagnan?" He gestured for the Spaniard and inventor to leave his office.

"What is it?" d'Artagnan asked, as his two comrades left. "We keep no secrets from Ramon and Siroc."

"That may be the case," spoke Duval. "But what I am about to proposition you with must first solely depend on the two of you and your decision alone. You may choose to fill Ramon and Siroc in later if you like, but it is to go no further than that. The fewer who know, the better. Understood?" His squinted gaze relayed the seriousness of what he was about to say.

Both d'Artagnan and Jacqueline consented with nodded heads to whatever it was the captain was inferring to.

Relaxing his demeanor, he began. "I've been mulling over the concept for some time now. But, in the light of recent developments at the palace it seems, whether prudent or not, I am forced to consider this course of action." As the captain paced the floor behind his desk, d'Artagnan and Jacqueline waited patiently for him to reveal some clue as to what he spoke about. "Now, I don't expect an immediate answer. I expect the two of you to talk it over first."

"Captain!" d'Artagnan interrupted, "Would you mind just telling us what it is that we don't have to give you and answer to, so we don't have to give you an answer?"

Captain Duval waved a pointed finger at d'Artagnan, and admonished, "Now don't start with me young man. I'm getting around to my point." The captain walked to the window with the young couple's eyes following him. "I am asking if Jacqueline would be interested in a new…well, it wouldn't actually be something new, since she's already been…" Duval was clearly at a loss of where to begin, and Jacqueline and d'Artagnan were not any closer to understanding what it was he was trying to say.

Obviously the senior officer was uncomfortable about whatever it was. D'Artagnan knew all matters involving women made the man turn to mush, so he offered his help. "What would you like to ask Jacqueline to do?" he bluntly asked.

Captain Duval gave him a look of amazement, and conceded, "All right, so you know what I'm after." Duval stumbled with the words, "Would Jacqueline be interested, then, in a Musketeer position…of sorts?"

The young couple was clearly taken by surprise at the captain's proposition. They shared a searching look with each other. But before they could comment, Duval quickly set the parameters. "Now mind you, this would be an unofficial position, off the records. I am not at liberty to jeopardize the Musketeer's credibility with Cardinal Mazarin circling for any reason to accuse us with before the king. This would have to be done discreetly."

Jacqueline looked at d'Artagnan and back at Captain Duval. "Yes," she said confidently.

Duval frowned, and forewarned, "Now Jacqueline, I told you not to give me an immediate answer. This is a very serious consideration. It is dangerous. You and your husband will need to talk it over. You would need to make yourself available to obtain information from delicate places—specifically in finding out what this _Marie_ has been put up to. Mazarin is not fond of you and he won't appreciate you being around. I know you are familiar with the royal family and have been received warmly by them. You know the palace layout and that would also work to your advantage. But I also know you are aware of Musketeer regulations and I would expect you to adhere to them."

"I realize that, Captain..." Jacqueline tried to interject.

But the captain continued with his considerations in asking for the young lady's help. "I really don't know what to call this position. This is not a job anyone could walk in off the street and apply for. It's tailored specifically with you in mind. You'd be writing the book. By graces, Jacqueline, you've just become too invaluable not to have on the team."

"Captain!" The frustrated woman finally raised her voice.

Duval stopped his ranting and took notice of the firm faced young woman standing before him.

"Captain, in truth, d'Artagnan and I have already discussed it," she relayed with conviction.

Duval gave them both an incredulous look. "When? Did I miss something?"

D'Artagnan had been content to remain quietly smiling in the back of the room till just then. Apparently he had been enjoying the captain's awkward display of groveling for his wife's help. "Captain, Captain," he finally interrupted in his smooth manner. "You should know Jacqueline and me better than that by now. When my charming wife says we've talked, we've talked. But just to put your mind at ease, we had this conversation in the carriage on the way over here. We all know Jacqueline's cut out to be a Musketeer. You don't really need my approval, but if you must have it in the old fashioned way, you have it. I approve."

"Young people these days," Duval fussed. "And you let me rant on and on when you already knew your answer." He shook his head. The captain's countenance deepened. To keep them in line and squelch his softness toward his new female recruit, he boomed, "Private, you already know the rules around here."

"Yes, Sir!" Jacqueline replied, sharply.

"Then you know there won't be any special treatment," Duval spoke in a toughened voice.

"I won't expect any, sir," replied the female soldier. "May I go now, Captain?" She leaned forward with a smile and raised her eyebrow in question.

Her look reflected so much of her husband's nature that Duval found it almost frightening. "Why do I feel I've just opened a caldron of asps?" the captain said with a troubled look. With an air of having remembered something, he stalled their exit to add, "By the way, before you go, there is one more thing. You'll have to find accommodations in Paris." Then looking suspiciously at the couple he accused, "But I suppose you've already discussed that."

"Well, we have," d'Artagnan answered, smirking.

"Dismissed!" Duval roared. "The both of you!"

As the happy couple headed for the door, Captain Duval scoffed, "Two d'Artagnans! What have I done?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 5**

**Adjustments**

**Chapter Description: **Siroc helps the d'Artagnans' struggle with Jacqueline's new role.

Several days had passed since the d'Artagnans had returned to Paris, and they were beginning to get settled in. The couple had sent a courier to the former Roget farm to gather their personal effects and bring them to their Paris apartment. Not far from the Musketeer garrison, they had found a quaint Parisian suite tucked back on a little cobblestone side street. It was not large and there was nothing showy about it, but it was neat and clean. It was all the busy young married couple needed during their time of adjustment.

Captain Duval had granted Jacqueline permission to return to duty and retrain for her new commission. She had almost entirely recovered her physical strength, but, she still needed to spend time rediscovering how to work as Madame d'Artagnan, verses Jacques Leponte. Being Leponte meant donning a male façade, but was otherwise forthright in delivery—she had been a Musketeer like all the others. Being Jacqueline as a soldier took another type of mask donning that needed a whole different approach. D'Artagnan had volunteered for the special task of helping her hone her fighting skills, while Siroc had been given the deliberating task of providing her with the proper tools for the job.

This morning, Ramon and Siroc were on their way over to the d'Artagnans' apartment to inform the couple of Duval's orders for the day. On approach, they could hear the couple's morning drill in progress.

"D'Artagnan!" They heard Jacqueline's angry voice through the heavy wooden door.

Siroc looked at Ramon, and asked, "What do you want to bet there goes another ruined dress?"

"How many would that make this week?" Ramon looked at his inventor friend in question. "Any headway on that tear-proof material you've talked about?"

Their discussion on Siroc's invention was momentarily interrupted by the sound of clashing debris from the other side of the closed door. "Maybe I should start thinking about full body armor," quipped the man with the source of ideas.

When the Musketeers outside heard Jacqueline's triumphant call, "Yield!" they knocked and entered. An angry, but victorious, female stood before a frazzled d'Artagnan. She had disarmed him and pinned him at blade point against the bed post. Noticing their guests' entry, the conquering woman brushed aside her dress assessing its damage and lowered her rapier. Offering no explanation to the entrants but an upset look, she retreated to change.

A still dazed looking d'Artagnan slowly sat up on the unkempt bed where the appearance of a battle had just commenced. He served his friends a look of frustration.

"Lose again?" Siroc stated, more than asked. Assessing the damage in the room he went on, "Maybe she wouldn't get so forceful if you didn't keep spoiling her dresses. Have you considered having her practice in pants? I mean, she wore them as _Jacques_."

"No." D'Artagnan pointedly disagreed as he retrieved his rapier from across the room. "When the time comes for Jacqueline to defend herself, she won't be able to say, 'Would you please excuse me while I change into something more accommodating for sword fighting? My bodice is a little tight.'" D'Artagnan swished his blade and returned it to its sheath emphasizing the seriousness of his point. "She has to be able to be effective as she is. Her life and the lives of others will depend upon it." Evidently the couple's morning drill had gone roughly and both were in agitated moods.

Siroc moved the fabric on one of Jacqueline's dresses slung over the back of a chair to reveal a gaping hole in it. He appeared to be deep in thought as he examined it.

Ramon watched Siroc investigate the hole, and observed, "D'Artagnan, you could go a little easier on her clothing, Senor. This has to be getting expensive."

All d'Artagnan could do was sigh. It was true that he had run his blade through three of her dresses in less than a week, but he was dead serious in helping her prepare for her new role. If it meant being hard on her, so be it. He loved her and had promised her his best. As unpleasant as it was, he owed her that much.

"D'Artagnan, do you mind if I have this?" Siroc picked up the slit dress off the back of the chair, still studying it.

"But Siroc, it's not really your style, is it?" His friend looked him over oddly. Then suspecting the inventor was onto something innovative for Jacqueline, he consented, "If it's something you think you can get into."

"Thanks," Siroc replied, completely unaware of d'Artagnan's sarcasm. Engrossed in reflection, he set it back down on the chair. "I'll come back for it later."

Jacqueline returned to the room adjusting her new set of clothing. Still wearing an agitated look on her face she smirked. "I'm really hungry this morning, dear, how about breakfast?"

Ramon and Siroc shook their heads and shared a frown of disbelief at the revelation that the married couple still fought for their breakfasts. As the four of them left for the Café Nouveau, the Spaniard and inventor imagined there probably was no other couple like Jacqueline and d'Artagnan in all Paris—for that matter, in all France.

After breakfast, Siroc and the d'Artagnans headed back to the inventor's lab for a briefing on what a weapons survey had turned up for Jacqueline. They knew it would take more than getting an invitation to the palace for her to obtain the information Captain Duval had need of. She had to be a soldier in every sense of training, yet a lady in every sense of appearance. And as a Musketeer she had to be prepared for any contingency that got in the way of achieving her mission. All the above would mean new tools and retraining.

Upon entering the lab, the ferret that the ingenious man had previously trained to 'rat out' the garrison mole came scurrying up to him. The scientist gave him a pat and slipped him some food from his pocket. "Hello, little guy," he said, cunningly.

With a sniffing nod of its head, the curious little animal greeted the inventor's friends. He had become familiar with their scents and their routine entrance into his territory known as Siroc's lab. With the ferret's curiosity settled, it scurried back to its out-of-the-way vantage point and nestled in.

Siroc began, "We'll have to come up with some advanced, state-of-the-art infiltration medium and compact weaponry that a woman can conceal." He gestured around the room. "We'll start with some known options, and once I get a feel for where you'd like to go with this, I'll engineer some unique ones catered to your liking."

Jacqueline walked around the table that was lined with a medley of trinkets and weaponry—known and unknown to her. "I'm not into all that poison-in-the-ring, devious woman-type stuff you hear about." And with that she picked up a dagger to hurl across the room. It landed squarely in a protruding wall beam and stuck. "I much rather prefer a fair fight."

Scoffing, d'Artagnan coolly revealed, "There's nothing fair about a fight with a lady." His inference implied that more had gone on that morning in their apartment than Jacqueline's dress getting ruined. "But then, I'd be the first to admit, you're not any ordinary lady," he raised the challenge to his wife.

"I'd act more like a lady, if you'd act more like a gentleman," Jacqueline replied, icily.

"I'm sure I can write my father for some tips on being a gentleman when it comes to dealing with _difficult_ women. I seem to recall Milady de Winter being especially genteel when it came to manipulating and abusing men," he smoothly demeaned her.

The insulted woman gasped at his last comment. His blow at associating her with such a woman had obviously hurt. She admitted to herself she was having trouble putting forth her newfound femininity while holding her fighting nature intact, but had she allowed herself to become as bad as he had suggested? But he had pushed her to, hadn't he?

Before, being Jacqueline or Jacques, meant being either one or the other. Now the line was so fuzzy. As a woman soldier, she was using a forceful femininity toward her husband that even she did not feel comfortable with. Maybe dueling with him wasn't such a good idea right now. Maybe they needed a break. How could she tell the man she loved that while she felt she had crossed the line that morning, she was afraid she would be called to cross that line again and again as a female Musketeer? Jacqueline wondered how they were going to reconcile these two natures that had to co-exist in one woman.

"Ahem." Siroc broke the thickened silence. Not wanting to get in the middle of the couple's argument and not wanting to know the details of it, the inventor redirected their attention back to their task at hand. "I was looking over this dress that d'Artagnan gave me permission to take, and it occurred to me that we could insert intentional slits in the skirt to act as hidden pockets. You could carry just about anything in it depending on the fullness of the skirt."

An intrigued looking d'Artagnan smirked while still holding his wife's gaze. "I'm glad to see I've been of some service," he sarcastically offered.

"Very funny." Jacqueline steamed at her husband's smart remark about him providing the idea by slashing holes in her clothing. In truth, it was the clothing as much as it was the whole charade that was giving the female Musketeer trouble. She had dueled in a dress countless times with her brother, Gerard. But a farm work-dress offered more flexibility than the finery of a Viscompte's wife. While the fullness of the skirt did act as one hindrance, she was beginning to see the value of it also acting as an asset for concealment. Then speaking to Siroc, "But, I don't suppose it would conceal a rapier?"

"No, I don't suppose it would," the inventor confirmed. "You'd have to rely on one of these other means of protection." He gestured to the spread of arsenal across the table.

Once again she eyed the daggers and pistols. "Great," commented a disheartened Jacqueline, "I've been practicing with the wrong tool." The implication that all her aggravation with d'Artagnan recently had been for nothing was truly a disquieting thought.

"Not entirely," Siroc encouraged, "a rapier is still a gentleman's preferred defense and you no doubt know how to disarm a man of one. You'll also still be able to carry a rapier under a lady's cloak as well as on horseback." Then, more timidly, he added, "But, of course that would be limited to outdoor travels."

"This adjustment is going to be more complicated than I first thought," she quietly announced with a sigh.

Siroc walked across the room and grabbed a light-weight leather apron off his cloak rack. He approached Jacqueline and handed it to her.

"What's this for?" she asked.

"Consider it a small gift from me to help you keep some peace in your marriage until you adjust," Siroc offered. "Wear it over your clothing while the two of you are busy…slashing at one another."


	6. Chapter 6

**Sign of the Cross**

_By JeanTre16_

**Chapter 6**

**Ramon's Gift**

**Chapter Description:** _Ramon ends up with more than a gift from his sister on his birthday._

In his quarters, Ramon hurriedly tore open his gift and produced a wide grin. "Arte Nuevo de hacer comedias en este tiempo, por Lope de Vega," he read the beautifully gilded words on the leather binding. The package arrived from Spain that morning from his sister. He leafed through the ornately inked pages with shiny gold gilded edges. She understood her brother and had spared no expense when it came to purchasing him the finest. She knew of his passion for the written word. His sister's gift spoke of the tender place in her heart for her flesh and blood. Today was his birthday and she had remembered.

On his last birthday she had sent him expensive goblets, which Siroc had destroyed in the process of making an eavesdropping device to listen in on the Cardinal's guards. The device had worked, giving them valuable information, but the gift had been destroyed. The Spaniard smiled at the thought that his inventor friend would not show the same interest in the "cloak and sword" book he held in his hands today.

Vega was one of Ramon's favorite authors. True, the book he held in his hands was comedy, but the writer was a poet. His works showed he knew the educated rules of poetry, but chose to toss them to the wind, claiming, "The common Spaniard cared nothing for the rules." Vega's witty use of historical fiction had served as an inspiration to the young man's love for rhapsodizing real-life events. Throughout Spain, published books by his favorite Castilian author could be found authentically as well as pirated. His sister had obviously purchased the best. The man with the day off looked forward to the blissful hours of reading that lay ahead—tales of historic love and comedy—involving medieval Spanish nobility.

Memories of sharing laughter with his sister over Vega's books in his father's library brought solace to the poet's heart. In lieu of his other family memories, the ones he had of her far outweighed the ones others perpetuated. While his sister appreciated her brother's passionate side, his father had scorned it. His sister understood Ramon's love to win the ladies with his 'words of grace,' as she teased. His father had pushed him in a soldier's path, saying, "Developing a passionate heart only leads to conflict." His father had his reasons, and his son's disagreement with him had provoked his banishment. It was a high price for the Spaniard to have paid, but he had promised his sister not to let bitter memories overshadow the love she sent with him.

Inspired by the purity of his sister's love for him, Ramon felt compelled to give himself a birthday gift. It was time to resurface and deal with another unresolved issue he had been in denial over. Grasping his book tightly in one hand while tapping it lightly on the palm of the other, the Spaniard sat there in contemplation for a moment. Although his family issues were weighty, another heart issue haunted his present and plagued his future. "Today," he promised his sister aloud, "I will let Liana go."

With his mind set, Ramon grabbed his gift and jacket and fixed his direction toward the door. Hungry, but unable to wait, he drifted though a few pages as he ate a quick breakfast in the Musketeer lounge. "Hey, this is good stuff." The poet savored the pages. Then he rose from his seat, grabbed a slice of bread and some cheese from the table and headed toward the stables. Thinking better of it, he returned to grab more for his pouch. "I may get hungry out there," he said and smiled to himself.

Tucking his rations away, Ramon entered the stables where he found d'Artagnan saddling up his bay, "Amigo," the tall Spaniard greeted his friend. "Thank you for taking my patrol duties today."

"Don't mention it Ramon," d'Artagnan replied, patting him on the back. "It's the least I can do for the birthday boy. Not to mention you covering for me and Siroc this past month." Pulling the cinch tight on his saddle, the young married man added, "Besides, Jacqueline and I agreed to take some time off from her training."

"Si," replied his concerned friend. "You two are having trouble, no?"

"Nothing a few days off won't sort out," d'Artagnan assured. "Don't worry, we'll be all right."

Ramon nodded his head in acknowledgement. He knew they would be more than all right. His friends had been through a lot of changes in the time they had known each other. With each new circumstance thrown at them they had always managed to overcome every one only to draw closer.

The poet in Ramon admired the deep and pure love that his married friends had for one another. It made him think of Liana again. Her resurfacing memory angered him and left him feeling empty at the same time. The sobering realization made him all the more determined to put her behind him so he could move on to a relationship more rewarding like the one his friends had. Even with the troubles Jacqueline and d'Artagnan had known, the relationship they shared far outshone any the tall Musketeer had known.

D'Artagnan noticed that the Spaniard's face showed something other than sheer enjoyment planned for his day off. But seeing that Ramon did not offer any specifics, his patrol relief did not ask. There were some things his friend had deep feelings on that were better off left alone for him to resolve. Just like Jacqueline and his issues, he was sure Ramon's would work itself out in time. "Enjoy your day off," d'Artagnan bid his Spaniard friend good-bye. But just to make sure his poetic friend came back around from wherever his travels led him that day, he added, "Remember, your birthday dinner's on us at the café tonight."

The Spanish Musketeer smiled in acknowledgement as he exited. "Gracias, amigo. Mucho appreciated. I'll be there," he reassured.

Ramon made his way quietly through the town to the heavily wooded area where he found the private sanctuary. He had come here once with Liana before he discovered her dark secret. They had shared an intimate night of wine and poetry. He could still hear her song-like voice in the air. He shook the thought off. Her enchantment still ran deep in his veins. The memory of this spot had haunted him since the last time he had been there. Somehow, today the place called for his return. In his heart, he knew he had to face the wound the site represented.

He had loved and lost. He had fallen too fast and too hard, no doubt at the pull of Liana's spell. She was young and beautiful and her eyes were alive and deep, but she had allowed her potential to succumb to evil. Ramon's soul clung to the goodness of God. He would never be like Liana. They were like oil and water; they could not mix.

"True poetry," he spoke into the stillness as if she would hear, "is from a noble heart of love, not a selfish manipulative heart of stone." He paused, as if expecting to hear an audible answer. Receiving none, but still determined to see his task through, he appeased to his reasoning. "There is a difference between you and me. Nothing twisted or misleading came from my lips." Ramon held his book up between him and the stillness, as if making a point. "Like my sister's demonstration of love to me, her actions edify, and lift up; they do not tear apart, like yours did." He felt the need to rebuke Liana's warped sweetness aloud. He had no hope she would hear him, but he needed to hear it for himself. She had used him with the white-washed allurement of her deceptive words.

Ramon lowered his fist-clenched book to his side and dropped his gaze to the long extinguished campfire. Leaves covered the spot that in his memory flames had burned that ominous night. Its location was all but erased from sight, except for in the recesses of his memory. He brushed the leaves aside with his boot to uncover the stones that marked the encased fire pit. There was no doubt the memory was real. He had only covered it, like the leaves had covered its physical trace. Tapping into his sealed emotions had rent his pain wide open. He knew it would hurt to return here, he just had no idea how much.

She intended to play him for a fool perhaps at the first, to achieve her objective of kidnapping the town's children; but, he also knew his pure and innocent love had played on her heart as well. Yet in the end, she had shown her choice. And he could not, he would not, go where her path led. Her last words on the wind that she still loved him acted as deep potion. "No!" he fought aloud. "I will not permit you to claim my soul. I've come here today to ask my God to take every last bit of it back from you. I will give it to one who is more deserving." There, he had said it. With those words came release and silence. As though a miraculous cleansing rain had washed over him, she was gone.

For a long time the passionate man just stood there staring, while clutching his book in anticipation. But all remained silent. The threat was gone. Slowly, the woods around him seemed to thaw from their freeze. At first a lone bird, then one by one, life returned. Ramon held his book before his eyes, opened it and began to read. Before long, he had wandered off with his horse to a nearby sunny glade and ate his cheese and bread as he read aloud between mouthfuls.

"This is good stuff," he said, while chewing. He planned to commit some of the pages to memory to use in the café that evening. "No one will mind my poor manners here, if I speak with my mouth full," he chided. There was no one in the livening spring woods but him and God's creation. The thought appealed to the poet in him, and before long, Ramon found himself completely absorbed in the enjoyment of his sister's gift.

As he read, the sound of distressed voices nearing the glade suddenly distracted him. With a soldier's instinct, the Musketeer lowered his book to the ground and crouched behind a mossy boulder to spy on the approaching commotion. From his hidden vantage point he saw three Spanish maidens being pursued on foot by a man wielding a sword. Ramon heard one of the women cry out in his native language, "Deio os conceda misericordia!"

Reflexively, Ramon moved his hand in the sign of the cross—forehead to chest, shoulder to shoulder—in response to the woman's cry to God for mercy. He whispered a quick prayer of his own, unsheathed his rapier, and resigned his hiding place in pursuit of the assassin.

Ramon Montalvo Francisco de la Cruz was a Spaniard, like the man he was chasing; but, he was also a Musketeer. He needed no one to ask him to do what he was now doing; it was in his noble heart to protect those weak and unable to defend themselves. When he enlisted in the Musketeers, it was not just for the job; it was for an opportunity to passionately use his soldiering skills to fight evil wherever he saw it.

The Spaniard quickly descended upon the assailant, readying his rapier as he ran. With a short distance to go, the assassin realized he was being pursed and turned to slash out. Missing his blow aimed for the Musketeer's head, he regained composure in a crouched position facing Ramon. The man was winded from his chase, but still had fight left in him.

Assessing the readiness of the man before him, Ramon could see the fleeing women look back over their shoulders for a glimpse of their mysterious redeemer. Even from their distance he relayed a glance for them to keep running—they did. Not wanting to give his opponent enough of a chance to catch his breath, Ramon returned his full attention to the vehement man.

"Cobarde!" The man insulted.

"No." the Musketeer piqued, "I am no coward. As I see it, you are the coward who chases after defenseless women." Launching a thrust to his opponent's chest with his rapier, Ramon landed an unguarded secondary blow to the assailant's head with his free fist. This caught the man off-guard enough for the soldier to grab his shirt and hurl him head first into a nearby boulder. "Now, what was that you called me?" Ramon spoke to the unconscious man. When there was obviously no reply, the victor nodded. "I thought you had said nothing."

Ramon retrieved his horse and book; then redirected his attention to where he had last sighted the three beautiful women. He left the motionless man where he lay and went after them. Finding three very exhausted women a short distance away, their deliverer assured them their assailant was no longer a threat and promised to see them to safety.

"Thank you for sparing our lives." One of the flight-weary maidens extended their appreciation. "You are an angel of God."

"No, doncella," Ramon corrected as he dismounted his bay. "It is I who guard three of God's beautiful angels." The tall Spaniard graciously bowed. "And may I ask the names of you and your companions?"

A lovely, but strongly assertive and obviously in charge, woman stepped forward. "Rosalina," she answered in short. "I am the eldest." She seemed to assess the young savior before her. Then giving a faint smile of approval, she continued with the introduction, "But you may call me Rosa. And these are my sisters, Dora and Maria."

Ramon again bowed at the introduction of Rosa's two sisters. Then tending to the matters at hand before the assailant roused to find them loitering, he offered his horse to the two younger sisters. "Let's get you to safety, shall we?" The gentleman made haste to help them up. With Dora and Maria mounted, Rosa and he walked side by side. It was a long walk back to town on foot, but the Musketeer took the opportunity to engage the spirited woman beside him in conversation. "Would you be willing to tell me what caused you to be chased…obviously so far from home?"

While the two younger sisters remained observant of the Spanish Musketeer from atop the light bay, Rosa did all the talking. "That merciless Spanish bounty hunter you spared us from was hired by our greedy neighbors. Castilian noble civility is shamefully not what it used to be." Rosa gestured at her travel clothing. "Alas, would you guess we are Castilian heiresses…well-born? If it were not so pitiful, it would be funny." Her note of irony was right. Ramon noticed that nothing she wore spoke of belonging to nobility.

Rosa's complexion was brightened by the exercise of their walk; yet, all her movements spoke of optimism. "I don't suppose you, being a Spaniard, know of anyplace safe for us to go in Spain?"

"No, Senorita." Ramon's gaze lowered.

Reading his humbled expression, she perceived aloud, "You too, then, are without a place to call home among your own people." They walked on for some time in silence before Rosa consoled, "But don't feel too sad for us, Senor. We are fighters and we still have one hope left of returning home."

"What would that be?" Ramon solemnly asked. "And how may I be of help?"

"Senor, you have already been of great help," Rosa spoke her gratitude. "But if we could trouble you for a safe place to stay until we could seek an audience with the Queen-mother." Rosa explained, "We hoped that in her being the daughter of King Philip of Spain, she would still hold influence among certain Spanish nobility. We wish to ask her help in securing our safe return to Spanish soil." Rosa paused to read Ramon's uncertain features. Then trying to conceal an embarrassing smile from him at the boldness of her proposition, she confided, "I know it sounds rather hopeless, but do you think there's a chance you could help us?"

The warmth of her smile brought a surge of compassion to the poet's heart. "Senorita," Ramon expressed, "I will take you to the Musketeer Captain right away. I am positive he will find a way for you to speak with the queen."

Ramon noted how good it felt to be with someone from his homeland that understood his struggles. Being a poet, he knew that Rosalina meant 'beautiful rose,' and he agreed that her name was fitting. No one could contest that she was beautiful on the outside, but she was proving to possess more beauty on the inside as he learned more of her. For the remainder of the walk, the only sounds to be heard other than Ramon and Rosa's conversation, were of two giggling girls on horseback as they watched their sister being wooed by their handsome countryman.

When they arrived at the Musketeer garrison and presented the request of the three Spanish sisters to Captain Duval, the captain was more than eager to help them see Queen Anne. Before evening set in, Duval and d'Artagnan had gone to the palace to inform King Louis that Spanish bounty hunters were present on French soil, as well as request an audience for the three Spanish women to see the queen. Louis had not been available, due to his preoccupation with Mazarin's niece. But, Anne was present and consented to see to the Spanish women.

Queen Anne added a personal request, "d'Artagnan, would you ask your wife if she would like to join them when they come?"

"I'm sure she would be more than happy to accompany them, Your Majesty," d'Artagnan replied, accepting on her behalf. He shared a pleased grin with his captain who was thinking the same thing he was. Ramon had just provided Jacqueline with the gift she needed to slip into the palace to do her work—three Spanish maidens. They had their 'Trojan Horse.'


	7. Chapter 7

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 7**

**Mazarin's Malfeasance**

_**Author's Note:** _Malfeasance is a French word meaning a wrongdoing, especially by a public official.

Cardinal Mazarin turned the carved wooden horse head mounted on top his desk toward the wall of his palace office. Slowly, the massive armoire on the adjoining wall moved to reveal a hidden staircase. The Cardinal disappeared into its darkness as the door gradually closed behind him. Unable to see in the dimmed lighting, he stood at the top of the stone stairwell to allow his eyes time to adjust. "Why do I feel I am the only one around here capable of thinking?" Mazarin cursed whoever it was that neglected to light the upper torches near his office.

When his vision was able to make out the shadowy steps, he began his descent only to be stopped abruptly in his tracks. The jolted man let out a surprised yelp at his sudden halt. The hem of his robe lay pinned between the sealed door and stone wall. "Imbeciles!" Mazarin demeaned at those who had caused him his sightless delay. When he yanked on the fabric to free it, he heard a loud _rip _and felt the ushering of breeze enter the place he imagined a sizeable tear had been placed in his robe. The patient-worn man grimaced, "I don't have time for this!" Continuing to spew threats, he pulled the garment free and concealed the rent section between clutched fingers.

Steaming, the man in red descended the stone stairwell and redirected his anger toward the reasons he had called today's meeting. It had crossed his mind that perhaps he overlooked something about this simple farm girl who wielded a blade so well. Had he been asking the wrong question in his search for her the first time? He considered. Should he not have been so concerned about _where_ she was; but rather, should he have been more concerned about _who_ she was? Why did a woman of such lowly consequence keep surfacing in circles of importance? Mazarin would have his answers. He had informed his guard to call the men of the Order to the fortified sanctum deep beneath the palace.

His Eminence's sanctum was more like a private undisturbed recluse rather than a sacred place as the name _sanctum _suggested. A sacred place by definition was a place consecrated to God; Mazarin's sanctum was set apart for anything _but_ honoring God. It was vile and things most unfitting for a man in the office of the church went on there.

Taking a black cloak from a wall hook, Mazarin gladly put the covering over his rent robe. Donning his dark colors, he continued along where the torches lit the way to the inner sanctum. As the chain driven gate raised for his entry, he saw them. They were all there; his men had come. From every walk of life, from every occupation, from every social stratum, the secret order had answered to his call. All of them stood there adorned in the same blackness as his Eminence.

After their ritualistic monotone recital, Mazarin called the meeting to order and addressed all present, "There are matters of extreme pertinence to discuss this evening. First, any information on Madame Jacqueline d'Artagnan…" and he paused to scan his audience for emphasis, "…formerly Roget, is to be pursued and brought forward expediently." Their leader's face turned to stone. "A handsome price will be offered to anyone with a useful lead on why she keeps gaining significance with each re-surfacing."

Mazarin then gestured for a short stocky man to come to the floor. While the other men were masked; this man wore none, which revealed his pallor complexion except for reddened cheeks that looked like they had been rubbed with an abrasive cleanser. His balding head was highlighted by sandy colored streaks of hair that draped to the side of his chubby face. The man had in his possession a worn thick book, which he held tightly to his chest as he walked forward. "Morin," the occultist robed Cardinal explained, "has been working on a scientific means to assure us that my niece, Marie Mancini, will be the right woman for the task of gripping King Louis forever in our power." Mazarin stepped aside for the man named Morin to open his book upon the illuminated stone and begin his canting.

oooooooo

"Morin," Captain Duval recited the name aloud to himself as he walked down the barrack hallway. He had originally missed the man among the royal court pay roster because of the over abundance of others by the same name. There was Jean Baptiste Poquelin, the playwright; Jean Baptiste Lully, the musician and dance instructor; Jean BaptisteColbert, the finance minister; Jean Baptiste Talon, the intendant of New France; Jean Baptiste Monnoyer, the painter; lastly, Jean Baptiste Morin, the 'scientist'. It would have almost seemed comical had it not been for the seriousness of his oversight. He imagined Mazarin had planned it that way and it was not by mere coincidence. Or at least the Cardinal had found his own sense of twisted humor in using it to his advantage—hoping no one would notice yet another Jean Baptiste on the palace payroll. While all the former Jean Baptistes were genuine assets to the court of King Louis, the last was solely in the employ of the man in red.

Duval knew only one man he could trust to make sense of Cardinal Mazarin's recent scientific pension endorsement. The captain made a call on Siroc in his lab. Usually, the wary leader did not venture into the inventor's place of work, but this was not a usual situation he had caught wind of, and he needed the man's expertise.

Upon entering he found the blonde-haired scientist busily welding metal. Today he worked on forging a new collapsible blade for their female Musketeer to carry in stealth. A sword smith would have been their usual choice for a standard issue blade. But being that a female soldier was off the record, the creation of the weapon also had to be off the record. Siroc willingly volunteered for the job.

Noticing the captain's arrival, Siroc carried the hot metal over to the rain barrel. Sizzling steam rose up as he immersed the glowing red blade into the cool water. The whole lab smelled of sweltering metal. Waving aside the thick air, Duval made his way over to the table where the craftsman had just laid his work. "How is it coming?" he asked.

The temporary sword smith held his artwork up for critique as he wiped it clean of residue. "What do you think, Captain? It's a blade fit to be concealed inside a ladies fan handle." His eyes widened at the description of his brilliance. "It doesn't have the finesse of a rapier, but it does have the advantage of an element of surprise."

Duval's eyes narrowed as he looked at the ingeniousness of Siroc's work. Then looking around the lab, he noted how many other recently engineered contraptions for Jacqueline littered the tables and shelves. When the scientist was put up to a task he went the extra distance to ensure thoroughness. But the captain had other pressing things to discuss with Siroc. "What can you tell me about a man by the name of Jean Baptiste _Morin_?" he asked.

"Morin..." the scientist repeated flatly, as if accessing the encyclopedia file in his memory, "…philosopher, physician, mathematician." Siroc lightly waved the steel blade in emphasis. "He studied _metals_ under the employment of the Bishop of Boulogne, although the superfluous application of his work into mysticismwas suspected as his employer's real interest. Then, under the employment of the Duke of Luxembourg he did publish a significant work on Aristotle. But again, his real alleged work application remained in mysticism." The scientist went on as he fitted the recently hewed blade into a hollowed fan handle. "He must have kept finding favor in high places because he was made a professor of mathematics at the College Royal." Siroc closed up the fan handle, stopped his work to lean against the table with crossed arms to address Duval. "He has shown brilliance in his field of mathematics, but his quirky ideas on the secrets of the universe have made him unpopular in scientific circles. He is in essence, one of the least liked and least acknowledged of modern scientists."

Duval took in all the information Siroc divulged. Nodding his head slowly, he proclaimed, "You can add to that off-colored list of accomplishments that Cardinal Mazarin has just awarded him a pension for his work."

Siroc grew a look of concern. "If Morin is working for Mazarin…? His work in mysticism is most likely what the premier's after. The last I knew, Monsieur Morin was working on something he believed would manipulate powers considered to be inherent in all people or events. His work is mostly the application of mumbo-jumbo from ancient texts set to mathematical formulations. But, simply put, he thinks it can control people and events." The scientist ran a soot smudged hand through his blonde hair and expounded, "It's no secret that past rulers and sadly even those within the church have unethically sought out parascientific methods of manipulation for political advantage. If the Cardinal has plans to use Morin's work in an attempt to under-gird his secret society's control over the king—" Siroc snapped the reassembled fan downward with a quick motion, extending the gleaming dagger blade from within the handle. "We may be dealing with more trouble than Mazarin placing his pretty little niece in Louis's path."

"God, help us." Captain Duval cringed at the scientist's effective display of their imminent danger. Duval knew whatever dark practices the false churchman rallied, only God could provide first-line defense for the Musketeers. "Oh, Mazarin, what are you up to?" He thoughtfully pondered. The captain suspected he would have yet another night of restless sleep. Remembering to express his appreciativeness for Siroc's insight, he concluded, "Thank you Siroc. You've been a huge help. At least Jacqueline will know what kind of heresy she'll be searching for in the Cardinal's office tomorrow."


	8. Chapter 8

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 8**

**Pretty Maids All in a Row**

**Chapter Description:** There are certain duties even a Musketeer shudders at.

As predicted, Duval spent a sleepless night pondering the matter of how Jacqueline was going to infiltrate Cardinal Mazarin's chamber. It would be a serious undertaking. The captain knew Mazarin would keep a careful watch on his feminine nemesis in the first place. That put a strain on setting up a diversion long enough for her to achieve her task. It was daybreak now and the tired Musketeer captain summoned his four trusted soldiers for an early morning discussion on their predicament.

At least two of the brothers-in-arms arriving for Duval's early office meeting shared the same concern as their captain. Amid tensions from their prior day's argument, the d'Artagnans' late night discussions left them feeling just as unresolved. They could not seem to agree on how she was going to pull off her multiple objectives at the palace. How was she to accompany the sisters, ask Louis about her necklace, discover Marie's motives, and search Mazarin's office? Her list entailed more than one person could possibly do. The more the couple talked about their present situation, the more it seemed their plan could benefit from at least one more female Musketeer.

Jacqueline took a seat on a wooden-backed chair before the captain's desk, while d'Artagnan stood behind her. Ramon's stomach growled as he strode in past his friends and took up a position near the office window. He gave the others a look of apology and stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth to satisfy him until breakfast. Siroc was the last to arrive. He gave his hair a quick combing with his hand and took the vantage point facing everyone from the opposite end of the room as Ramon. Apparently the man had come straight from his bed—no doubt he had kept late hours. Only his companions knew he most likely exhausted himself over some invention rather than expending himself over logistics. Their worry-worn leader paced behind his desk as he allowed them time to settle.

As their conversation made its rounds about the room, it seemed they quickly eliminated the more sensible courses of action. Before long, d'Artagnan let out a frustrated sigh as he leaned forward to grasp the back of Jacqueline's chair. Resting his weight on it, he began to think unconventionally. "Too bad we don't know how the chameleon altered his appearance to be all those people." He curiously recollected the time the thief from India had almost caused his captain's demise.

A disquieted Jacqueline turned to him and disapproved. "I'm not sure I'd want to know about the magic used behind that."

D'Artagnan shrugged in acknowledgment of her remark. He recalled her recently admitting how much their run in with this imitator had unnerved her. Holding a man at gunpoint with his identical personification was not only unsettling; but, it left her unsure if she could have gone through with the shooting, had it been necessary. Her encounter with this impersonator so soon after her _invincible sword_ incident, gave her paranoia of killing the man she had just realized she cared for. Her fear stemmed from the vision she had during her momentary unconsciousness during her fight with the asylum escapee. The young husband knew first-hand that his wife still battled nightmares of somehow ultimately being responsible for his death. Aware his mention had acutely resurfaced her fears, he had no intention of feeding them; so he let the subject go.

Redirecting the conversation to all, d'Artagnan raised the question, "Does anyone else see a problem here or are we the only ones who've noticed? Jacqueline obviously can't be with Queen Anne and Ramon's Spanish sisters while she's looking into Mazarin's niece and slipping into the Cardinal's private office. She's going to need some assistance."

Uncrossing his arms, the inventor stepped forward and pointed at his female comrade. "If anything," Siroc agreed, "Jacqueline should be the diversion, while someone else slips in to investigate." His eyes shifted from the young woman and paused in turn on each occupant in the room, as if each were a mathematical variable being systematically substituted into their equation.

"But who?" Ramon threw up his hands in question and voiced their dead-ended predicament. "Rosa and her sisters will need to be present with the Queen. There's no way one of them could help."

Captain Duval had been pacing this whole time, assessing each suggestion or comment. "No, Ramon, even if they could, I would never ask it of them." He stopped his treading to address the Spaniard. "They wouldn't know what to look for in Mazarin's office and I would not want to be responsible for putting their lives in danger, should they be caught." Still pondering the subject, he added, "I do know, however, from my conversation with them yesterday that they share our mutual distrust of Cardinal Mazarin. They showed concern when I told them the Cardinal's niece was here in Paris. None of the sisters had a fix on Marie's character, but they were alarmed she was a courtier in the presence of France's young king."

"Amazing," d'Artagnan mused, "Mazarin's reputation precedes himself all the way from Spain." He let go of the back of Jacqueline's chair, regaining his posture and shot his captain a perturbed look.

"Indeed." Duval nodded in agreement. "But it also suggests that Rosalina and her sisters show some largeness when it comes to understanding the politics of royalty. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to ask them to keep their eyes and ears open for information on Mazarin's niece. Although," the captain emphasized, "I still don't want them dragged into this whole mess. They have enough troubles of their own."

"That's the problem," d'Artagnan exasperated, "We still don't know what it is that we're not dragging them into. As far as I see, we still don't have a way into the Cardinal's office." At this point the roguish man looked as though he would prefer marching directly into the palace and demanding his precarious list at sword-tip.

"That's just it," Jacqueline concurred with his statement, but frowned at his tone. Feeling the need to think the problem through out loud, she pushed on, "Captain, it has to be one of us. And it can't be me, so it has to be…one of you." The deducting woman looked around at d'Artagnan, Siroc and Ramon with a sudden realization. "We need one of _you_ to go in there."

"Wait one minute." Duval waved his finger in cautioning. "You mustn't forget that Cardinal Mazarin knows all of you. If any of you went near his office, he would find out about it. We cannot afford to raise his suspicion of our search."

"But!" Jacqueline's expression hinted a developing mischievous idea. Her recent jog of memory with the invincible sword made her think of something else from her vision. She bit her tongue, realizing how much Siroc was going to hate her for her suggestion. Approaching the scientist, she examined him dubiously and dared, "Siroc, has anyone ever told you that you have a _feminine_ jaw line?" Her accentuated use of the word feminine was adjoined by a _d'Artagnanish_ raised brow.

After Siroc's initial shock, he noticed all the eyes fixed on him with no one coming to his defense. "Oh, no, no, no!" In sudden alarm he bolted for the door. The inventive man smelled a rat of a plan brewing in the mind of his female comrade. He was not going to stand around and be talked into it.

"Siroc!" Jacqueline jolted in pursuit, careening her weight against the door. "You're the only one available who understands Morin's work and what to look for." She was convinced her intuitive friend could make this work.

"But, I'm a man." Siroc fought her to grab the door latch. "I'd never pass as a woman."

"Just leave that to me," Jacqueline argued back, holding her ground. Then with squinted eyes and raised chin she quelled in piqued accusation, "Besides, wasn't it you who recently requested _me_ to dress like Jacques Leponte, _a man_, when you were making plans to rat out the mole? I don't recall you asking how I felt about that first. You assumed I would do it for the good of the Musketeers. Are you saying now that it was _fair_ to expect me to dress like a man, while it's not all right to expect you to dress like a woman?"

Noticing the other's gazes still fixed on the two of them with no one daring to intervene, Siroc felt himself being boxed into a corner. Even the captain, perhaps due to his inexperience in dealing with Jacqueline's feminine assertiveness, surprisingly looked unable to offer direction on this one. The faltering man stood alone. "I never suggested you take on the personification of Jacques in the first place."

"You're changing the subject." Jacqueline would not let up. "I _had_ to in order to do my job. Consider this part of your duty to the Musketeers."

"Gee," the outmoded man squeaked. Still noticing none of his male companions coming to his aid, he managed in a nervous high-pitched voice, "You're all true friends."

"Friend?" Jacqueline pressingly reminded him, "Consider us even then for all the torture you just put me through with your medical treatments and therapies."

"Torture?" Siroc looked like a wounded puppy. "I kept you from seeing that quack at the palace. Not to mention, my treating you kept you from being discovered." The young medic-to-boot knew that if the palace physician had treated Madame d'Artagnan after her acquittal, he would have discovered scars possibly leading to her alias as Jacques Leponte.

"Which brings us right back to our need," Jacqueline confidently landed her point. "In order for you not to be discovered, we need you to be in disguise."

Siroc closed his eyes and shook his head. Slowly, he saw his argument weakening and his avenues of escape vanishing.

"Siroc," Captain Duval eventually found his voice, "As much as this highly unethical notion smells of potential treason, I believe it just might work." The captain's face shone with a light of encouragement he had not displayed since they were first faced with this dilemma. Then facing his reluctant volunteer, he sobered, "If we didn't need that information so badly, Siroc, I'd wait until we could come up with another solution. But we don't have that luxury. We have the opportunity now, we have a diversion, and we cannot allow the situation with Marie to progress unchecked."

"Face it, Siroc," an amused d'Artagnan sarcastically ventured. "Your corset's as good as tied. It's pointless to argue with Jacqueline. And it looks like the captain's made up his mind. Besides, I kind of like the idea…Sophia," he teased, smirking.

The blond-haired scientist resigned his fix on the exit with a look of dread. "Why do I feel I'm going to live to regret this?" Looking at d'Artagnan and Ramon, he solemnly requested, "Remind me to grow a full beard if I survive this misadventure."

"One more question." Ramon looked at everyone, still unsettled. In truth, during the whole conversation, the Spaniard's thoughts were preoccupied with how three of the genuine women attending today's palace outing were going to figure into their plan. "What about Rosa and her sisters? What do we tell them?"

"I don't think it wise to keep Siroc's identity concealed from them. They're bound to figure it out, and they'd want to know why," D'Artagnan admitted. "But how much do we tell them?"

"Captain," Jacqueline once again asserted herself, "you did say they detested Mazarin and that you trusted their judgment. Maybe they could help me with Siroc's transformation. Four women are bound to do an adequate job on one man."

After a moment of consideration, the captain conceded, "All right." He knew he was subjecting his young impersonator to more humiliation; yet he knew they also could use every advantage to pull this off. "You may let them in on Siroc's guise. Tell them he seeks critical information in interest of the king in regards to Marie, but you may not tell them anything more. Is that clear?"

The captain's final order was met with four, "Y_es, Sirs!"_

oooooooo

For breakfast the four Musketeers made their way over to the d'Artagnans' apartment where Rosa, Dora and Maria promised a Spanish home cooked meal. The sisters were staying at the apartment temporarily until further plans could be made certain. After their meeting with the Queen today, they hoped to be along their way. For now, the gracious women gladly reciprocated the d'Artagnans' hospitality with their own culinary talents.

"This is excellent," d'Artagnan complimented after his first bite. "What is it?"

"Tortilla Paisana," Ramon answered for the sisters between mouthfuls of his own. Raising his fork in emphasis, he listed, "Eggs, peppers, onions, ham, and spices."

"Oh, Ramon." Rosa laughed. "I can see you're a connoisseur of the culinary arts. You are enjoying your meal, no?"

"Mmm, Senorita." Ramon conveyed his satisfaction. "It has been some time since I've tasted such fine cooking. Bueno."

"Gracias." Rosa blushed.

Immediately the other Musketeers caught on to the attraction shared between Ramon and Rosa, but said nothing. They noticed their mutual attentiveness yesterday, but thought it merely shared heritage. This morning it was unmistakable that their Spanish friend was falling for this vivacious woman. Of course, the younger house-guests had noticed from the start, but kept their teasing to themselves.

This was the first time all four brothers-in-arms had spent any real time with the three sisters from Spain. As for the male Musketeers, they found their new company invigorating and a pleasure. Other than Ramon and Rosa's attraction to one another, the close friendship the soldiers had built with Jacqueline over their short history made the addition of the three sisters feel like more of the same.

As their meal was finished over discussion of palace plans, Jacqueline took further notice that while Rosa was the eldest and undoubtedly the most forthright of the three, the other two also showed strong personalities as well. Dora, though more reserved than her sisters, showed a depth of intelligence. If she could compare the woman to one of her own companions, it would have to be Siroc. In conversation, Dora took longer to open up, but when she spoke, it became evident of her vast education and ability to apply the voice of reason. Maria, Jacqueline thought, could not have been more than sixteen. She was, young, but also portrayed a strong thread of courage and maturity in her mannerisms. Jacqueline doubted that the three of them would have gotten far without all of their wits added together. They were three uncommonly strong women. It proved to be refreshing for the female Musketeer to be in the company of such women.

It was Jacqueline who dared the question, "How did the three of you grow up so strong in such a male dominated world?" Her admiration of these women shone obviously on her face.

Rosa's eyes momentarily betrayed a history she seldom spoke. She soberly replied, "Castile is a rough place these days, even for ladies." As quickly as she had let her guard slip, she recovered her cheerfulness. "But, I cannot complain. Here we are in such a place. God has been good." Looking at Jacqueline, Rosa gestured at her happy surroundings and smiled contagiously.

Ramon's eyes quietly followed this beautiful olive complexioned woman and silently admitted his liking her. He saw Rosa's pleasantly assertive behavior as a love for life, and it showed in how even the smallest of details did not slip unnoticed by her. A simple morning meal became a festive event. From a full spread of food to a bouquet of flowers on the table, this lovely woman from his homeland took charge and warmed the atmosphere. It made his heart feel full. He liked her. In fact, he confessed to liking her very much.

"Let's get started on our make over for Siroc," d'Artagnan chided, pushing his empty platter forward on the table. "This I've got to see," he directed at a distant looking Ramon as he stood up from his seat. Three men had walked into his living quarters this morning, but they would be the only two to walk out.

D'Artagnan's interjection had its desired result, his comrade's eyes drifted back toward their upcoming artistic challenge. The poet had difficulties conceptualizing his masculine Musketeer friend posing as a woman. Reflexively he turned to Rosa to ask her opinion, "What do you think? Do you believe we can transform this humble looking man into a gorgeous senorita?"

Rosa gave the blond-haired man a hard look, while her sisters looked on entertainingly. "With a wig, a little make up and the right dress, you'd be amazed what even an unattractive woman could pull off." Finishing her survey she chortled, "I've seen worse."

Siroc did not like being the center of this kind of attention. "Could we just get on with this." He gestured to Jacqueline. "After all, this was your brilliant idea."

Jacqueline put a hand over her mouth to hide her own fit of laughter and walked off. She went over to the changing screen on the secluded side of the room to grab one of the dresses Siroc added hidden pockets to. Suddenly a hand grasped her mouth and strong arms pulled her body behind the screen. She found herself face to face with a mischievous looking d'Artagnan who had slipped off unnoticed while everyone's attention had been on Siroc. He released her mouth as soon as she saw it was him.

"What are you doing?" Jacqueline scolded in a harsh whisper, obviously not sharing her husband's amusement at startling her.

"Trying to have a few private moments alone with my wife?" D'Artagnan smiled and pulled her close to kiss her teasingly. "I miss you. We never made up properly from the other day." He had thought of little else than making things right with her after their harsh words to one another. Nothing, not even their difficulties with her role as a Musketeer would quench his love for her. He wanted her to know that before she went into that palace today. Their careers were just too dangerous to leave important things unsaid. "I love you," he whispered in her ear.

"Oh yes," Jacqueline tilted her head back, smiling. She found herself distractingly sensed by his affection. "I love you and I've missed you too. But, this is hardly the place or time for this." Then resisting mildly she reasoned, "What would the others say if they found us back here like this?"

Largely ignoring her concern, he answered, "They might suspect we're young—" he caressed her cheek "—in love—" he kissed her softly "—and not to mention married." He really did not care what they thought. All he wanted was Jacqueline.

"Jacqueline?" Rosa's searching call piercingly interrupted the young couple's moment of intimacy. "Are you in here somewhere?"

"I'm over here," Jacqueline answered, trying to regain her composure. "I'm…looking for something. I'll be right with you," she covered. Then noticing her husband still held her tightly in his grip, she nudged him back to his senses. "D'Artagnan, you can let go of me now."

Realizing his arms were still around her waist, he recalled the first time he held her...well, not technically. They had been tied together in ropes. But he recalled how he had forgotten himself in her captivating hold on him. She had pegged his behavior as flippant. And since that time, he schemed every possible way to place her in his arms again. Later, in his jealousy over thinking she was after another man, heightened by the situation looking so much like her rendezvous with the king of England, he foolishly drank a love potion in attempt to break down her resistance to his advances. To his surprise, he discovered she held his noble character in high esteem. Her confession made him realize her love would not be won cheaply, and that he wanted to win it for more than just one night. And he eventually had, but he was still d'Artagnan. Coming through to his senses, he let her go with a smirk. "It's a good thing I'm on the noble side of my flippant character right now or I might demand you stay here with me."

Jacqueline decidedly grabbed a burgundy dress and shook her head, smiling as she left. "D'Artagnan, you sure know how to ruin a moment." How incorrigible this man she loved could be.

oooooooo

Before long, the four women and one man were dressed and nearly ready to leave for the palace. Dressed as a woman, but with the voice of a man, Siroc briefly walked Jacqueline through the armory and other gadgets he prepared for today's expedition. Mid-explanation, he drifted from his demonstration to notice all eyes in the room watching him with alarm. "What?" he asked.

"Do us a favor." D'Artagnan slapped the femininely dressed man on the arm. "Don't say a word if you don't have to. Let the ladies do all the talking."

"It's just not natural," a cringed faced Ramon added, "Perhaps if you had more practice imitating voices, but no, not the way you sound now. You'd surely blow your cover."

Appropriately so, sensibly quiet Dora spoke up. "Senor, we'll just say you're shy and don't like to talk."

Assessing their readiness, d'Artagnan clapped his hands together. "Well, it looks like you're set to go." Seeing four women and one man side by side in pomp, he playfully tagged in a sing-song voice, "…Pretty maids all in a row."

"What?" Maria did not seem to follow his amusement.

"_Ma Mere l'Oye_," Jacqueline inserted while crouched beside Siroc, making last minute adjustments to his dress. Noticing Maria still did not follow, she translated, "Mother Goose." The Frenchwoman expounded while trying to concentrate on her task, "King of France…turn of the first Millennia…his wife told stories of a countrywoman children's rhymes…"

"Poetry," interrupted d'Artagnan sarcastically, "You'd like it, Ramon."

"As I was saying." Jacqueline shot her husband an annoyed look. "King Robert II's wife passed down these children's stories…and thus we have, 'Mary, Mary, quite contrary…and pretty maids all in a row.'"

"Hopefully," the disguised man mocked, "the current queen won't have any new stories to pass down after today."

Jacqueline stood up. Her work finished, she turned Siroc to view their handiwork in the mirror. As frightening as he looked, he had to admit, the women had done a pretty good job at making him over. "This better work," he exasperated.


	9. Chapter 9

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 9**

**Counterpoint**

**Author's Note**_ Counterpoint is a musical art form perfected during the baroque era. It simultaneously overlaps two or more independent melodies that seem to be pursued by its counterpart, known as a fugue. _

_**Chapter Description: **Set to music, multiple objectives are played out for multiple Musketeers and maidens at the palace._

King Louis XIV's preferred accompaniment for the day would have been Marie Mancini, but his mother insisted the Cardinal's niece spend time with the ladies. To pass the hours, the king distracted himself by agreeing to learn a new counterpoint technique his personal musician dubbed was sweeping the world by storm.

Jean Baptiste Lully sat forward on the edge of his seat, as if entrusting a great secret to the young king and his orchestra. "One melody begins, then another enters to overlap; until, in turn, each set of individually added sequences seamlessly produce a complex…but invigorating composition." Ending his explanation in a crescendo, his enthusiasm proved contagious.

It was on this note, Louis found himself happily lured away from his beautiful companion for the day in the company of his musician. Clad in a voguish, gold embroidered jacket, the blond-wigged student considered his enticement in counterpoint to be based on more than its mere popularity. It had a beat. In his opinion, Renaissance music was good for putting old men to sleep. He was young and wanted modern, upbeat styles. Being king made him privy to have his way. Louis determined, if he could do nothing else for France, he would wake her up and move her into the next era with some zing.

Louis bobbed his head in a steady beat, holding his flute lightly against his pursed lips. With brows intently raising and lowering in matched rhythm, his eyes fixedly watched for his accompaniment's cue. Lully produced a lively introductory sequence on the beautiful mahogany harpsichord before looking up to approve the young apprentice's beginning movement. His protégé answered with a succession of richly plotted notes. Along with his small orchestra—cello, bassoon, timpani, and violin—their music filled the room and swept down the marble-laid palace hallways.

Their lively music drifted along, joining Queen Anne and Marie mid-conversation en route to receive their visitors. The younger's voice played its own constant melody alongside the flow of orchestra notes. "But I overheard my uncle say the other day that it was the hidden things that men incline their ears to. I'm sure he meant those deep philosophical concepts like Plato, Aristotle and Socrates studied. What else could he have meant?"

"You cannot know for certain, dear, what your uncle was speaking of. It seems frivolous to contemplate," Anne distractedly answered the talkative young lady while smoothing her dress habitually in preparation to meet her guests. "No matter, it sounds of no consequence." The queen made trifle of Marie's heady conversation. She was a woman of impeccable outward perfection, not of books and study. Her interest today lay in welcoming her callers with warmth and hospitality.

Not giving up her pattern of thought, the petite girl chimed away, "But, I do so want to know and understand such things. Would God have not given me such a mind and heart to know, and then be so cruel to deny me the opportunity?" Marie attempted reason with her royal figure-head. Her tight dark curls animatedly bobbed in tempo with her accentuated speech.

"Marie, it would be wise to leave such modes of conversation to the gentlemen. Apply yourself to the finer things of being a lady." Anne lightly gestured back in correction. Approaching a full length mirror, set in the hallway for the sole purpose of checking appearances before addressing company, she admired her lavender dress with gold accent against Marie's deep French-vanilla cream. "How aesthetically pleasing." Anne self-absorbingly reflected to her young companion. "Take note how our colorful contrast makes for a pretty show, flowing together along the music-filled corridor." Delighted by what she observed, she tapped her fan lightly in beat to the music. The fashion-smart woman breathed deeply and put on an air of regality. Her Majesty nodded in cue to the disquieted philosopher that their private mode of conversation had come to an end. Recovering their pace to the up-beat rhythmic sounds, they approached their destination.

An attending servant near the door announced the arriving women with a sweeping bow. "The Queen-mother and Marie de Mancini."

In elegant timing to the introduction, the two royally dressed females wafted through the breezy entry and faced the ensemble of ladies. Seven in all made up the group of women who stood in the great room. Multiple layers of complexities accompanied them. Each nervously contemplated the achievement of their objective. Each held anxiety of causing a cacophony in the overall balance of plans. Each silently prayed their desires would be fulfilled. Thus began their delicate interactions of wit against the backdrop of Lully's chasing musical fugues.

Queen Anne spoke first. "Madame d'Artagnan." She nodded her head in acknowledgment. It was the matriarch's hope of spending more time in acquainting herself with the young wife of her favorite's son. Anne diplomatically introduced the woman beside her. "May I introduce Cardinal Mazarin's niece, Marie Mancini." An appropriate round of curtsies followed.

Marie, if forced to confess, would have blurted out her dislike of small talk and requested excusal to spend the day with Louis. "It's a pleasure to meet you," Marie pleasantly offered instead, smiling no more and no less than polite.

Jacqueline, while attempting to read every betrayed movement to sketch Marie's character, kept a keen eye out for Louis. She knew she would soon have to couple those objectives with her necessity to cover for her comrade's absence. But until then, she would have to practice her skills in female civility. "May I present my companions, Rosalina, Theodora and Maria." Immediately the female Musketeer realized she had forgotten to mention someone and with slight faltering added, "And this is Sophia…Siroc's cousin." She landed her introduction on a minute miss-key and hoped the queen and Marie had not noticed. One last round of proper curtsies met in concert with the dramatic conclusion of the first musical piece.

In the absence of music, Anne looked at her unexpected guest standing shyly behind the others. "Siroc has a cousin?" Her expression showed wonderment.

The female impersonator's only reply was a forced nervous giggle. Hoping to leave as little impression as possible, he raised his opened fan before his face to hide all but his eyes. Pleadingly, he shot a glance at Jacqueline to help him out of his awkward moment.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Jacqueline masterfully drew Anne's attention away from the disguised man by appearing to relay in a secretive tone of voice, "Sophia's very shy." The female Musketeer's convincing cover succeeded. A better subject could not have accomplished the task.

Anne's gaze once more returned to this young woman she so much desired to know better. Smiling at Jacqueline, the queen offered, "Let us chat in the parlor over refreshments." With a summoning gesture to a servant, Her Majesty gave order. "You may bring our beverages now." After giving directions to her servant, she returned her attention toward her guests. "Cappuccino will be served today. I trust it will be a treat for you. Coffee, no doubt, you've heard of, but, it was one of our own Musketeers, a brilliant handsome young man, who first brewed this wonderful concoction for my son and me here at the Palace." The royal woman went on as if she were revealing never-heard-of information to her guests. She had no idea, of course, that two Musketeers were present who knew of what she spoke of. And one of those two happened to be the very man who could tell her more about cappuccino than she knew—the inventor of the machine himself. The flaunting woman gestured for the party to follow her lead and be seated.

At the mention of his invention, Siroc perked. This, along with the queen naming him brilliant and handsome, had an intriguing affect on the young scientist. While the group made their way to be seated, he silently basked in his glory with a perpetual smirk on his face. He wondered what else she said about him in the company of others when he was not around. Momentarily he laid aside why he was there and watched with anticipation as his cappuccino machine was rolled out on a service cart.

As the company lighted upon their richly decorated seats, Siroc watched the cappuccino being made like he were a fly on the wall. He grinned eagerly at first, but eventually cringed and closed his eyes with each abusive misuse of his invention. This progressed until the blonde-wigged, burgundy dressed man could not contain himself. With a look of wanting to get up to show the man how to properly use his machine, he leaned over to Jacqueline and whispered, "He's destroying it."

"Shh," Jacqueline sharply countered his whisper. "Check your pride and go along with it." Her friend's furrowed brow hinted he wanted to argue with her, but their tête-à-tête was interrupted by the queen.

"What did you say, dear?" Anne had noticed the shy young lady in conversation with Jacqueline and genuinely wanted to be included. Concurrently the queen received the cup of cappuccino the servant offered her and took a sip.

Jacqueline and Siroc looked at the queen in stupefied unison. Trying to maintain their cover, the Viscompte's wife fumbled for her voice. "Your Majesty…Sophia was informing me…" The agenda driven woman paused and decided to turn their blunder into an opportunity. She lowered her voice. "…She has requested to use…the wash room."

"I'd be happy to take her," Marie broke into the conversation. She wanted any excuse to pry herself away from trivial pleasantries. Even a walk down the corridors with a companion who lacked intelligence enough to hold a decent conversation would suffice. Besides, she could take the route past the music room where Louis was and at least see if she could sneak a glance at him.

Placing his fan down for the first time that day, the man dressed as Sophia received his cappuccino in mocking manner as the others. He sniffed his drink hastily, scrunched his face at its ghastly smell and set it down without tasting it. Picking up his fan again, he shot Jacqueline a look of panic from the side of his eyes and gestured with a twitch of his head toward Marie. This would get complicated if Marie escorted him. He had prepared for guard contingencies, but was not prepared for dealing with a young lady, especially the Cardinal's niece.

"No, dear." The queen seemed drawn back as much by Marie's interjection as she was by her guest's request. Anne looked at the blond-haired lady hiding behind her fan. Deciding the poor girl suffered from enough embarrassment, she placed her cup and saucer down on a small ornate table and motioned discreetly for a guard to near her. She raised the back of her hand to her mouth and whispered something to him privately.

Marie gave a quick pout relaying her disappointment, but quickly regained her composure to receive her cup and saucer from the servant. She took one sip for protocol and set it down. Quietly she looked around the room in boredom.

Meanwhile, Jacqueline took a sip of her cappuccino and wrinkled her nose in response to its extreme distastefulness. Her comrade had been right about the servant destroying his invention. She made a mental note to apologize to him later for her rashness. Placing her beverage down on a nearby table she relayed to Siroc in secrecy, "You'll have to go now, no matter what."

He understood and gave her a sober nod in acknowledgment.

At this point, music again began to flourish in the palace from the direction of the music room. Unlike the light airy tones of the first composition, Lully's new piece rolled with strong undercurrents of emotion. Set to the new melodramatic counterpoint rhythm, each renewed their design to sway events in their favor.

The red-coated guard regained his posture and looked playfully over to the burgundy dressed subject. He wore a grin that made the blonde-haired man's skin crawl. "Mademoiselle, if you would follow me."

Siroc rose rhythmically from his seat. Despite how this Cardinal's pawn gave him the creeps, this was it; it was show-time for the scientist. He would not get a better presented arrangement than now. He recalled his captain's words that morning, informing him that Mazarin was scheduled to be out of the palace on business for the day. The servant of the king dutifully put his humiliating circumstances aside and focused on his work.

Rosa, Dora and Maria's appeal to the Queen-mother had been the prearranged instrument to mask Siroc's detachment from the group. Despite its dual purpose, the request was genuine and the weight of responsibility fell to the eldest of the three. Seeing the young Musketeer receding down the music amplified hallway, Rosa overlapped his objective with hers. Having been properly presented to the woman, she hoped could help her siblings and her return home, she spoke forwardly, "Your Majesty, you are so very kind to see us on such short notice. I cannot tell you how much it means to my sisters and me."

Her Majesty received the appreciation with a delicate dip of her head. Distracted momentarily from reclaiming her cappuccino, the queen paused to give her half-kinswomen a good look for the first time. Rosalina, who addressed her, sat at her side in the place of importance. This stunning young lady Anne knew to be the eldest of the three. She was slightly shorter than her junior, Theodora, and had rich but fine, dark wavy tresses of hair she wore draped on her shoulders in a large Spanish-style comb. Her eyes were chocolate brown, graced with a lively sparkle produced by her ever present smile. Fair and olive in skin-tone, she was a perfect model of a woman from her youthful homeland. France's former regent posed that although Rosalina was delicately beautiful in appearance, she showed strength in her manner of conduct.

The French queen's gaze drifted to Theodora, the second of the three sisters, who sat next in order near her eldest sister. Tall and slender, she rose just above Jacqueline in height. Her neatly arranged hair was coarse and of a lighter brown hue than her older sister's. Light brown, gold-flecked eyes complimented her deep olive complexion, giving her the glowing appearance of having seen much sun. Anne noticed how she carried herself in support of her senior.

Lastly, the regal woman took note of Maria, the youngest, smallest and most delicate of the three. She had the deepest of brown eyes and dark hair against a creamy skin-tone. The striking contrast added to her delicate appearance. But beneath her exterior, the queen could tell a steady source of stamina lay readily available. Anne's diplomatic experience told her instinctively that the young girl's heart would readily follow the lead of the older two.

Arranged in a circular seating arrangement, Anne's gaze completed the composition. After Maria, Sophia's empty seat, Jacqueline and Marie to her immediate left. Seeing her company dressed simply, yet in elegance, the queen concluded they made a formidable delegation. Knowing the sisters came to request her aid, she returned her gaze to Rosalina and she set the next wave of discussion in motion. "Tell me more of how you came to be here."

Rosa met her cue with persuasive precision and began to elaborate. "Being the daughter of a former Spanish king, you know our people are of a proud and mixed heritage. You are aware of the troubles we face with the parliamentarist Aragon court. While there are privileges and autonomies to our court system for some, it is at the cost of those being born of the wrong noble bloodlines. The battle between the Aragon and Castilian kingdoms reached our front doorstep last year, taking our father's life and driving my sisters and me into exile. We have been running ever since. Your gracious Majesty, we are tired and desire to go home with your help." The bold Castilian noblewoman took a short repose to measure the Queen-mother's response. Sighing to regain her composure, she proceeded. "All we ask is a letter of your good will bearing your name. Surely those of the Aragon court will bow to the words of their Majesty's daughter. We would not ask if we thought we had a prayer of reaching Castile alive without it. You are our last hope."

As rare as it was to see Anne in the role of diplomat, her royal upbringing had afforded her the training. France's Queen-mother placed her words carefully. "We do live in precarious times, my dear Rosalina. The troubles you speak of in Spain are known all too well here in France. What you ask for, my good word, I'm afraid would not do you any credit. Nobility no longer respect the good word of royalty as it once did in Spain or France. Here too we have had our share of troubles with nobility uprisings. I am sorry to bear such foreboding words." The seasoned queen paused to allow her hint of denial to have effect. Instilling her appearance with uplifted spirits, she suggested an alternative. "If you should decide, however, to reside here in France, I would personally see to your request."

For a moment, Rosa let the queen's sobering words sink in. What little hope her sister's and she had of returning home had just been quenched. Despite the queen's upbeat offer for French residence, she knew her sister's were heart-broken. They would finish their pampered palace visit as planned until their disguised friend returned from his mission. Then in sync with Lully's overlapping sorrowful fugues, Rosa's sad thoughts drifted to their cross-dressed counterpart. She hoped he was meeting better success than they had.

oooooooo

Siroc, in his burgundy dress, and the red-coated palace guard fell in step. The woeful music turned into dramatic rolling chases as they made their way down the corridor. To make sure they walked the route past Mazarin's office, the disguised man often stopped in pretense of admiring the artwork adorning the palace hallways. The philandering man seemed not to be in a hurry and even encouraged the side-winding. Appallingly so, the scientist deducted the bold man was interested in more that just a woman's company. Before long they had wandered in close enough proximity to the sleuth's destination. Having had enough of the increasingly inappropriate advances, the man dressed as Sophia drew back his left fist and walloped the unsuspecting guard squarely on the jaw. Abruptly putting the man out, the Musketeer found need to cradle his fall to avoid others from hearing the large frame hit the floor. Dragging him before Cardinal Mazarin's office door, the undercover soldier left him there. He wanted the man in plain sight where he could see him coming to again.

No longer in company of another, he forgot his feminine cover and reverted to his masculine stance. It was a good thing no one saw him there too, the sight was truly disconcerting. Brazenly searching his pockets, he pulled out a pair of light-weight gloves to conceal his fingerprints. He continued probing his pocket until he found a soft-tipped but solid sinew used for upholstering heavy fabrics. Having done detective work on palace locks before, he knew the tip would not leave the conventional scratch marks of a hard metal pin. Hopefully, there would be no sign the lock had even been fiddled with. He put the gloves on before guiding the instrumental object directly to its destination, as though the inventor could see its inner workings. In an instant, the door was unlatched. Cautiously, Siroc opened the door, making sure no one occupied the room. Satisfied that no one did, he quickly entered and began his search.

Methodically he scanned the room's contents, his movements mirroring the deeper undercurrents of the background music. He had been in the Cardinal's office before. It was always neat and tidy as though no real work ever went on there. But the inquisitive man suspected otherwise. What he looked for would not be in plain sight. Quickly, the infiltrator opened each drawer, studying its contents systematically. At one point he found an old arrest warrant with Jacqueline's picture on it. "What's this still doing in here?" Siroc mused. Putting the poster back where it came from, he continued his way around the room without success. He glanced over at the unconscious man lying in front of the door. The guard was still out cold, but the Musketeer determined he would not be out for much longer.

With his last few moments, Siroc stood by the small secretary desk lining the outside wall. Looking at the small wooden horse-head he inquired thoughtfully, "Mazarin, oh, Mazarin. Where do you keep your secrets?" He placed his gloved hand on the wooden head and turned to scan the room once again. From his position he spied something small and red stuck behind the large armoire across the room. A look of discovery crept over his face. Releasing his grip on the wooden figure, he was drawn over to the large piece of furniture on the adjoining wall.

Crouching, he carefully took hold of a small red piece of torn cloth caught behind the oversized antique and held it up to scrutinize it. Processing his discovery he concluded its source was the Cardinal's red robe. He examined the location where he found it. "Peculiar. How would a piece of Mazarin's outfit wedge itself in such an out-of-the-way place?" On to a hunch, Siroc removed one glove and placed a finger in his mouth to wet it. He held his crude, but effective, draft sensitive instrument near the place the fabric had been lodged. As he suspected, he felt a cool, strong draft flowing from behind the large piece of furniture. Scaling his moistened finger up and down the height of the armoire, he noticed the draft ran the whole height of the structure. Whatever cavity lay behind this massive piece of wood, it was no small opening. Replacing his glove, he positioned his hands on it for leverage and attempted to move the piece. It was solid and would not budge.

Suddenly, he was alerted to the reviving guard outside the office. Regardless of what he suspected lay behind Mazarin's armoire, Siroc was out of time. It would be better for him to report what he knew to his captain than to be caught and have no information at all. Vowing to return to discover the source of cold air flowing from the Cardinal's office wall, he gave the room a final visual check. Satisfied that everything was as he found it, barring the red cloth he placed in his pocket, he exited the room. He suspected he was on the verge of uncovering some secret alcove for storing Mazarin's heretic secrets or perhaps it even concealed a passageway. But leading to where? The Musketeer's considerations were cut short by the sound of moaning.

Siroc skillfully relocked Mazarin's door. Clearing his throat, he braced himself to deal with the awakening guard. He slapped him lightly on the cheeks to aid his revival. "Naughty!" he scolded the rousing guard in a squawking whine.

Looking at his surroundings and back at the lady crouched over him, the stunned man sat up. He touched his jaw where the disguised man had landed his fist. Rubbing it, he lifted himself up off the floor. Dazed, he asked, "How long have I been out?"

Siroc squawked, "Not long."

Realizing the shy, squeaky voiced woman was responsible for his lapse of consciousness, he was too embarrassed to report the incident. He did not want a soul to know what happened to him. He suspected the shy woman would hold to her secrecy as it was her modesty that would be in question otherwise. Hastily, he rose to his feet and began to follow the woman back to the parlor. "I thought you had to go…I mean…use the wash room," the reddened man asked, not sure what to think of his recent experience.

The actor shrugged and shook his head as if to say he no longer needed to go. Without saying a word, the impersonator quickened his step. In cadence with his completed task, Lully's counterpoint composition came to its metered finale. Siroc was anxious to wrap up his number as Sophia as well and bring his performance to an end.

oooooooo

Arriving back at the parlor, Siroc rejoined the others and gave his female comrade a nod of acknowledgement. He had completed his mission.

Wondering what he may have turned up, Jacqueline could not help be disquieted at her failure to launch her personal objective for the day. She had not run into her king. As she turned to leave ahead of the others, Jacqueline literally almost pivoted face to face into Louis coming from the adjoining hallway. "Sire!" she responded out of habit in the lowered tone and mannerism of Jacques Leponte. "I mean, Your Majesty…" she quickly covered in her own voice as she curtseyed. Unsure whether it was the awkwardness of her response or his sudden confrontation with the woman he had not seen since their encounter in his throne room, she sensed an initial twinge of pain in her king's expression.

"Ah, Madame d'Artagnan," he tactfully recovered his air.

Jacqueline's thoughts raced. Did she see him looking at her cross necklace? Yes, there was no mistake. His eyes had nervously shifted from her pendant to her face—back and forth. If the question had not practically burned within her, she might not have been so quick to think. Noticing a brief delay of her companions, she took advantage of their privacy to blurt out her question. "Please, if you would. Please explain your note…"

Before she could ask more, he turned to face the same direction as she, away from the room and the others. He took her arm in his and positioned himself securely by her side in privacy. Looking over his shoulder, assuring no other overheard his reply, he whispered, "I cannot. It is not my place to tell you." Then, as quickly as he had taken her into his confidence, he released her.

With furrowed brow, he looked at her, re-donning his initial look of pain, and lightly shook his head as if at a loss for words. As quickly as the young king's countenance had changed from pain, to civility, to pain, he once again shone with a delighted smile as the others joined them and the sight of Marie registered his attention. This remarkable young king was learning the many faces of royalty.

Yet, something about Jacqueline had made it difficult for him to hide his true emotions. But what had he said? Had he said it was not his place to tell her about her necklace? He was the king! If it was not his place, whose place was it? The discouraged Musketeer woman wondered if she would ever get to the bottom of her riddle. Who else could she possibly ask her questions to now? Her moment was lost. Her heart sank.

oooooooo

Later that evening, Jacqueline and Siroc reported to their captain on their reconnaissance mission. Just prior to their meeting, Captain Duval had spoken with Rosalina. Her report was not encouraging. But, in spite of her discouragement, she told Duval she was resolved to seek God's guidance and forge a path on behalf of her sisters. She promised that as soon as they had discussed their options, they would inform him of their course of action.

Pacing the office floor, Jacqueline's summarizing words to her captain in regards to Marie were not very encouraging either. She waved her arms in frustration as she spoke. "Aside from her being young and harboring a genuine disinterest in trivial matters…coupled with excessive interest in learning and literature…she's a very normal girl and amazingly compatible with Louis. You can't fault a person for their extravagant mannerisms and talkativeness." Finishing her speech, she slumped down in the wooden-backed chair before her captain's desk. She knew it was not what the worried man expected to hear but perhaps he could be thankful that it also was not as bad as he had braced himself for. Still, Jacqueline never felt so unresolved in all her objectives.

As for Siroc's main contribution, he waited for his comrade to vent herself before leaving his reclined position against the wall. Wearing his traditional Musketeer uniform, which he had gladly exchanged his earlier attire for, he relayed his findings. First, he reported that he did not turn up any of Morin's works. To this, Jacqueline and Duval were reinforced in their discouragement. It seemed all their objectives had been met with dead ends—all but one. A wide grin slowly covered the blond man's face as he held up the red piece of cloth and revealed his discovery in Mazarin's office. If his discovery led to what it suggested, it had the potential to counter all their failures. Siroc concluded, "He may have something hidden behind that piece of furniture. We'll have to go back in there."

With this ground-breaking bit of news, Captain Duval looked his soldiers in the eyes. Enthusiastically waving a clenched fist, he passionately resounded, "If there is something hidden—and there is, believe me, I know there is—then it can be found. It will be found! There is nothing hidden that cannot be uncovered. We'll find what Mazarin is hiding. And when we do, his day of reckoning will come. And I pray we'll be there to see it."


	10. Chapter 10

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 10**

**Crossroads**

Rosa strolled with Ramon down the quaint Parisian streets. Side by side they took their time on their way back to the d'Artagnans' apartment where she was staying. Swinging a small bag she held on a string to the rhythm of their waltz, she attempted to slow their pace. Happy melodies from street entertainers and sounds of laughing children cast a stark contrast to the young Spanish woman's melancholy thoughts. She fought off her bitter feelings. She wanted the last of their short moments together to be happy. But she knew they would not. Stopping their walk all together, she turned to him with the news. "Ramon," the hesitant woman soberly spoke with her face lowered down to the ground. "My sister's and I will be leaving tomorrow. We'll be sailing to the Americas." There, she had said it. Looking up, she beheld his shocked countenance.

"Why?" he asked. Her sudden change of conversation came without warning and made him wince. They were seemingly having a wonderful afternoon, and now this. He struggled to understand the source of her decision. "Did Queen Anne not say she would help you obtain French residency?" As if fumbling for a reason to convince her to stay, he cocked his head reflectively sideward, shaking it all the while in disbelief. But the only words to come out were, "Why so soon?" The tall Spaniard looked at the beautiful senorita before him, trying to say what he wanted, but feeling he had known her too short a time for the right to say it. All he could manage was, "Will you not give Paris a chance?" What he really wanted was for her to give him a chance—to give them a chance.

But the Spanish woman knew better than he realized what lay in his heart. She battled with it as well. In her decision to leave for the Americas, she was not only closing off her potential relationship with Ramon, she was facing the hard reality that she would never see her homeland again. Although she admitted to liking this man, she knew that the quality of life she could offer him would not be one he was deserving of. There was no hope of a future with this dashing young Spaniard who had struck a claim on her heart in such a short period of time. Reluctantly, she decided she would not tell him how she felt. She would make every effort to withdraw from him.

Trying to keep their conversation light as they walked, she put on a cheerful face. "We have a cousin, Julian, who has promised us a place to stay. He traveled to the Americas last year when trouble broke out at home. He took much of the family fortune with him, hoping it would never be necessary for us to flee. But I can see his decision was wise. We are only sorry we must impose upon his hospitality." As it was habit for this strong natured woman to do, she countered the gravity of her situation with optimism. Looking at her escort with her winsome smile, she encouraged, "So you see, there is nothing to fear for us. We are being well taken care of." She tried to nod in a convincing manner, but with him standing so close, her resolve proved difficult.

What she did not know was that although Ramon had fallen for her, he too held his tongue back from telling her so. He found his noble heart in conflict with his romantic one. He knew, as well as she, that there was no future in France for her. Although he wanted to ask her to stay, and even entertained the thought of asking her to marry him, he decided his desire came from pure selfishness. It was best that her sisters and she were to set sail for the Americas. He knew it, but he did not have to like it.

Thoughts of going with them had crossed his mind. After all, three women traveling alone could use the protection. He too was a Spaniard, not a Frenchman. He had asked himself if there really was an obligation for him to stay on French soil. But Ramon had already known the answer to that question. He had played the crux of it over and over before in his mind. He knew he was needed here in the service of King Louis XIV. Ramon Montalvo Francisco de la Cruz had genuine influence on the young king of a powerful nation. No, Ramon would not abandon his duty. Even though he was not a native of France, he had a higher duty in the battle against the oppression of good. And with his fellow Musketeer on the verge of a discovery that could possibly sway that battle for all time, he knew he must choose to stay. Perhaps he would reconsider later, but for now, he was needed where he was. Rosa and her sisters would sail without him.

For some time, the couple walked on in silence. Almost to their destination, Rosa stopped again and took out a small cloth-wrapped object from her bag. She faced Ramon with the pleasantest smile she could afford. "I would like very much if you would always remember me." Her words proved more difficult to say than she anticipated. Choking back her tears, she quickly placed her gift in his hand and closed his fingers tightly around it. Feeling the warmth of his hand, she looked once more to see his pain-stricken face before releasing her grip. Quickly, she turned and hurried to close the distance between her and the d'Artagnans' front door.

Ramon stood there with gaping jaw, looking at the closed door his beautiful rose had just bolted through. He looked toward the cloud strewn heavens and muttered, "Dios mio, why must this end this way?" With growing curiosity, he looked down at the carefully wrapped gift in his hand and slowly peeled back its layers. The beauty of what he saw caught his breath. Carved in a creamy white semi-precious stone, set on the backdrop of an amber oval base, was her delicate likeness. Looking down at her cameo, he ran his fingers over its smooth face. What he really wanted was to caress the face it depicted. Once again, the Spaniard felt a twinge of pain grip his breaking heart.

oooooooo

Jacqueline busily arranged her clothing for d'Artagnan and her night at the garrison. She had been present in the captain's office when Rosa, Dora and Maria announced their decision to leave France for the Americas. In the wake of that news, the couple decided to allow the sisters exclusive use of their place for the night. Despite knowing it was against their boss's explicit order, they would take a chance and stay in her husband's quarters at the barracks. After such a round of disappointments for everyone, they believed all concerned were in need of a night of privacy.

Without warning, a clearly upset Rosa burst into the apartment and startled the young woman packing her clothes. Offering no explanation as to her rush, the Spanish woman threw herself on her bed and wept. A bewildered looking Jacqueline set aside her task and took a seat by the sobbing woman. "What happened?" she asked, gently placing her hand on her friend's convulsing shoulders. She guessed her hurting friend's source of pain. Having just come from the garrison, she knew the young woman had been with Ramon. Not receiving a response, she offered consolation, "I understand…"

"What would you know of my troubles?" The distraught woman abruptly cut her off. Rising from the bed, she backed away from Jacqueline. Shaking, Rosa spoke, "You have a husband, a home and I can tell you hold a very dear place in the heart's of the king's Royal Musketeers." With a tinge of jealousy mingled in her anguish, she snapped, "So don't tell me you understand." Then, as quickly as she had spewed her words, she regretted them and collapsed to the bench at her side, crying. As soon as she could gather herself, she gave apology. "I'm sorry. I did not mean that. You've been nothing but kind to us. You did not deserve my misdirected frustration. I am just so…so…" but tears, rather than words were all that came.

A compassionate Jacqueline rose from the bed and once again went to comfort Rosa. "I'm sorry, too. I never intended to infer I knew your pain. What I was trying to say was that I know we all have our burdens to bear. You've been through so much already, and I know your decision to leave only brings more trials." The sole surviving Roget could feel a knot forming in her stomach, accompanying the flooding memories of her sorrows and her still unresolved issues. She pushed them away. She was there to reach out to the woman beside her now.

The Frenchwoman looked at this dear friend she had come to feel as a sister in such a short time. She took her friend's hand lightly in hers as she would do with her mother's when they had heart to heart talks. "You are such a strong woman. I would have liked for you to stay and help keep me in line."

With her tear-streaked face, Rosa found her laughter. "You don't need me here. You have a whole garrison of men to watch over you. You are so blessed."

To her inference, Jacqueline joined Rosa in her release of laughter. "I won't deny that I am blessed, but it still would be nice to have a sister like you around." The sincerity in her eyes told this woman her words were true.

An optimistic spirit returned to the houseguest as she advised her newly claimed sibling. "If I were your sister, I would tell you to stop hiding behind your mask and take a stand as that brave woman Musketeer."

Rosa's words came suddenly and unexpectedly. Disturbed at what Jacqueline heard, she withdrew her hand, stood and wiped the moisture building on her palms in her skirt. She looked to her guest and mildly reproved, "You do not know what you're saying."

Perceiving the alarmed look on her friend's face, Rosa offered an apology. "I'm sorry. I did not mean for my words to be unkind. I thought it would be a dream for a woman like you to hold such prestige among your people. But I can see I'm wrong. May I ask why?"

In her firm resolve, Jacqueline resisted the passion she too felt in Rosa's words. "I felt tempted with that route once." She crossed her arms and she spoke as though the memory physically worked on her. Jacqueline had learned that lesson in her encounter with the Invincible Sword. It seemed the vision that came with that experience acted as a reminder to her of the thin line she walked between being a blessing and a curse in her life. Whether it had been from God, she did not know, but it acted as a crossing point, a line of sorts. On one side, she lived her greatest deeds, while on the other her greatest failures. In seeking self importance and ambition, she became her worst enemy. But in remembering who she was, a called servant of God, and in esteeming others as more important than self, she would remain true. What a lesson she had learned about her own selfish will in wanting to be a Musketeer. How easily something as good as wanting to defend France's king, could be turned into something evil. It was an alarming discovery to see what potential lay within her very soul just waiting for the opportunity to devour everything she held dear.

Sighing, she explained, "It is never that simple. God has already shown me where that path would lead. France, her king, and those I love and hold dear deserve my unrequited best. I'll lay aside my pride and give my life willingly for these things. That is what a Musketeer is. It cannot be different because I am a woman. To elevate myself as a woman would be to elevate myself as an individual over France, and it would make me no better than Cardinal Mazarin." Locking gaze with her friend, Jacqueline's voice softened in adding, "If I am elevated in the service of others, then that is a different case, but it should never be something I seek."

After a long silence, the young Spanish woman looked up with admiration on this woman who had just bore her heart. "You are a better woman than I," she said. "I see God has called the right lady for the job. For I, myself, would possibly not be so strong." She shared a warm-hearted smile with her friend.

"Rosa," Jacqueline reciprocated her confidant's high regard of the other, "Perhaps you are right about what God has called me to do. But don't think he hasn't an equal calling of importance on your life. You need to get your sisters to safety. And you've done nobly in your task so far." She walked over and once again put her hand on her friend's. "Don't be so hard on your self. I think you've done marvelously in your trying circumstances." Almost as a sobering afterthought, she raised her brow and ended, "In truth, we never know exactly what we'll do until we're faced with our trials. We just have to be sure who we are before we face them."

oooooooo

Evening was getting on and Cardinal Mazarin sat in his study with Jean Baptiste Morin, going over their progress with Marie and King Louis. The man in red was pleased with the events concerning the budding romance between his niece and the powerful new royal figurehead. The two were practically inseparable. Now, all he needed was reassurance from his parascientist that she would continue to be the right type of influence on their ruling subject.

"Monsieur Morin," the Cardinal professed, "although I am pleased with the apparent results of our scientific experiment, can you tell me for sure that it is not by some natural coincidence that Marie and Louis find their attraction? I want to know for certain that I can determine her bend and in turn control his? I want proof. What can you give me?" He sat with folded hands, awaiting a reply.

"Your Eminence…" Morin began, but was abruptly interrupted by a rapping on the study door.

"Who could that be at this hour?" Mazarin vented his displeasure at the inconvenience. "Enter," he permitted the intruder.

A guardsman swung the door ajar enough to announce, "Your Eminence, a courier has arrived for you who said he has a valuable message."

"Show him in," the Cardinal instructed. Not wanting Morin to be privy of its content, he immediately adjourned their meeting. "I apologize, but we will have to pick up our conversation tomorrow. Now if you'll excuse me." The premier stood to show the man in his deviant employ to the door.

As the short, stocky, balding man left, the courier stepped in to hand Cardinal Mazarin his entrusted parcel. Dusty and smelling of the countryside, he gave the presence of having ridden hard all day. "Pardon the intrusion, Your Eminence, I realize the hour is late, but there was one heck of a storm chasing my heels, and I trust you'll be thankful I did not wait it out."

"I'll be the judge of that," the Cardinal stoically replied as he received the courier's post. Even if it were to hand Roget over to the premier on a silver platter, he would never show a morsel of gratification to a mere messenger. "You may go," was all the man of importance offered, without even so much as a glance for dismissal. His eyes remained glued to the document he held.

With the messenger gone, Mazarin walked a slow, well-worn lap about his study as he pulled out the package's contents and began to read. "Leponte?" he pondered aloud, just moments after he began. The inconsistency made him stop. He double-checked the report heading. Yes, it was news regarding the dispatch he put out on Charles d'Artagnan—father-in-law to the subject at hand. But this was not the type of news he expected. He expected news on Roget, not Leponte. He read on, pouring over its entire content within a brief time. He ended his round about the room before his desk and dropped the papers down to its surface.

Cardinal Mazarin's search for information on Madame Jacqueline Roget d'Artagnan had been fruitful. It had taken an unexpected twist, but the man in red was growing in its pleasure with each passing moment. The news suggested deception, and therefore, foul-play. His dispatch had returned with information from Marseille that when Charles d'Artagnan left Paris, he had not taken Leponte. All documentation said otherwise. The innkeeper from where the legendary nuisance stayed showed no second king's soldier in his lodging records. With further research, no record of Jacques Leponte was found at any stop along the way. Apparently in his hasty departure, the man of fame had forgotten his aide. But no, at further investigation, the young apprentice had not been seen since the return from the coronation at Reims. So where was he? What did this mean?

Once again, a mystery presented itself in his search for this woman's secrets. Pacing his floor, he recalled his own recent surmising of the matter. He had posed the question that instead of being concerned as to where this woman was, he should have been more concerned as to who she was. Connecting the two mysteries, he considered, perhaps, once again, he should not be concerned as to the missing whereabouts of Jacques Leponte as he should be of the question of who this person was. After all, this Musketeer appeared as suddenly as he had disappeared.

His Eminence percolated over the puzzling pieces in the report. If Jacques Leponte had vanished into thin air, then where did he go? Mazarin pulled the old arrest warrant for Jacqueline Roget from his desk. He wondered aloud, "Jacqueline Roget…Jacque..." He stopped mid-name, eyes staring at the picture before him. His face lit up. "Jacques. Jacqueline…Could it be? No, that would be too scandalous." His adrenaline was flowing now as he walked his well-worn circles about his study. "But it is. It's true." He knew it was.

A broad and devilish grin spread across His Eminence's face. Gathering up the report from Marseille, including the picture of Jacqueline, he strode with great purpose to speak to his acting captain. He would not bother the king at such a late hour. And with that storm his courier mentioned heading toward Paris, he would not want to risk delay. There would be time enough when the sun rose, to discuss all the nuances with the boy king. If, per chance, the young ruler gave him trouble, he would use Morin's persuasion on his niece to swing the royal pawn into agreement. Meanwhile, the premier would have the couple arrested under the "_lettres de cachet_," an open-ended, uncontestable prison sentence, signed by the king for the disposal of troublesome subjects. For now, he was determined to have the d'Artagnans apprehended and imprisoned. He was confident he finally had the evidence that would lay the troublesome Musketeers firmly in his grip. Yes, it looked as though the counter plans of the man in red, teeming as the approaching storm on the horizon, were about to turn and hit hard.

oooooooo

Duval was up late in his office finishing his day of menial tasks when a squad of Cardinal Mazarin's guardsmen brazenly barged in. Producing an arrest warrant for the d'Artagnans, Mazarin's men stated that they had just come from the couple's apartment, where they had found it occupied instead by three Mademoiselles. They complained that the three women told them nothing as to where to find the man and woman they were looking for. Thus, in their apparent empty handedness, the henchmen came to the next logical place to search—the Musketeer garrison.

Captain Duval angrily rose from where his paperwork lain strew across his desk and slammed the warrant down in its midst. Addressing the offensive guards who planted themselves just inside his office door, he stated, "They're not here. I house no married couples in my barracks." With that, he firmly stood his ground. But, hearing that the d'Artagnans were not in their home, made him wonder where they could be. The captain did not want these thugs to find his soldiers before he did. It was an outrage that the Cardinal had issued the warrant under the _lettres de cachet_, clearly proof that he had side-stepped the king's direct involvement. Although the letter bore the king's signature, Martin Duval was fully aware how the blanket edict worked. It gave the arrestor the right to act immediately without going through conventional channels. Duval would stall, at least until he had time to speak with King Louis.

"But you do employ this Musketeer impersonator and her unfortunate husband," said the brash red-coated assailant. "If you are caught harboring fugitives, you will hang with them as well." He rocked forward to his boot toes, clasping his sword hilt. He was proud of his opportunity to show the Cardinal he was a capable replacement for the former Captain Bernard.

"I will certainly not answer to you on accusations made against my men." Duval held his temper. He would not waste his breath on this arrogant pawn of the Cardinal's. But, he did want Mazarin's dupes out of his garrison, and he certainly did not want them searching it. "You will not disturb my sleeping soldiers at this late hour. I have a garrison to run and my men are in need of their rest. You will come back in the morning."

"We will do no such thing," brayed the haughty guard.

It was at that time that Siroc and Ramon returned from their evening patrol. Entering the lounge from the stables, the tired men were alarmed at the sight of red uniformed men in their captain's office. Although the guardsmen stood with their backs to them and did not see their entry, the two Musketeers did not escape Captain Duval's notice. While the silver-haired leader did not perceive the sought after man and woman to be in his garrison, he did suspect their two comrades knew of their whereabouts. To stall the search and get a word of warning out to his wanted soldiers, he spoke loudly enough for the returning men to hear. "If you are going to search my garrison for the d'Artagnans, you will do so under my supervision."

His speech had the desired effect. Ramon and Siroc quietly, but quickly made their way down the hall toward their comrade's quarters. They knew exactly where their married friends were. "Wake them up and inform them they're being searched for. Tell them to get to my lab, and I'll sneak them out," the forward thinking man hastily directed before leaving.

Ramon nodded his head in understanding at Siroc, and then rapped softly on his comrade's door. As soon as d'Artagnan cracked the door to see who was knocking, the tall Spaniard pushed his way in.

"Whoa, what do you think you're doing?" the sleepy-eyed man reproved. "Barging into my room in the middle of the night! Did you make a wrong turn? 'Cause your room's down the hall." D'Artagnan wore the expression as though his friend had just played a bad joke on him and pushed Ramon back toward the door.

The troubled midnight caller raised his hands to hush his friend as he lowered his voice in a rushed whisper, "Listen, d'Artagnan, we don't have time for this. Mazarin's men are searching the garrison for you and Jacqueline right now. You have to get out of here. Go to Siroc's lab…"

Beginning to understand his friend's intrusion was not one of jest and trying to make sense of his foggy thoughts, he interrupted, "Slow down, Ramon, what are you saying? Why are the Cardinal's men after us?" asked the confused Frenchman, now looking quite jolted from his sleep.

"Compadre, I don't know. We overheard the captain talking to Mazarin's guards. That's all I can tell you." The seriousness on Ramon's tired face was finally enough to convince his friend to rouse his slumbering wife.

oooooooo

Within only minutes, the wanted couple had dressed and made their way down the garrison corridors to Siroc's lab. D'Artagnan quickly gave his blond-haired comrade instructions on where to find them the following morning. Then, under the careful watch of their brothers-in-arms, the fugitives stealthily slipped out into the wee morning hours.

Half way across the sleepy town, the fleeing d'Artagnans suddenly heard a group of Cardinal Mazarin's men noisily heading in their direction. Taking cover, the couple dodged into a cluster of bushes. In their first break from non-stop running since Ramon broke the news of their hunt, Jacqueline felt the full weight of guilt for the imminent fall of the man who had pledged his life for hers. Her worst nightmare was slowly becoming a reality before her eyes.

Seeing his wife drift back into the despair she had experienced after her abduction, d'Artagnan took her firmly by the arms and in a hushed, but firm voice, spoke directly to her face, "Jacqueline, I know you feel responsible for this, but it's not your fault. Cardinal Mazarin is the one behind all this, and I won't have you taking his blame." The plea for strength in his eyes rallied her spirits. "You need to be strong right now so we can get safely out of town."

Trembling in his hands, her blue eyes met his and she choked back her tears. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes to regain her composure. Despite her deep-rooted fear, she knew she would do anything for d'Artagnan. He deserved that from her, no matter what she felt like. That resolve pressed her on.

Echoing her husband's rally for her to be brave, she recalled her ailing mother's words to her when she had voiced the fear she felt of her mother's inevitable death. Matilde Roget had challenged her daughter not only to be brave, but to always to trust God as well, especially when the way grew particularly dark. Suddenly, it all came to mind with such clarity. In her mother's absence, Jacqueline drew courage from her words. Silently, she turned her thoughts toward God and prayed.

Crouched in hiding, d'Artagnan curtly felt a large rain-drop smack his face. "Just when you think things can't get any worse," Looking up he could see the glow of the city lights on the low clouds hovering overhead. As typical, he trivialized the seriousness of their circumstances. Eyeing her, he commented, "Great, I hope you're wearing something that looks good when it gets wet, because we're about to get dumped on."

Jacqueline shot him a disapproving look at his poorly timed wry comment. She was not amused.

Within moments it seemed the entire heavens opened up upon them. In the distance they heard the shouting voices of the Cardinal's men. "Head for the palace. We'll pick up the hunt when the storm lets up." And off the sounds of hoof beats went into the rain-obscured night.

Realizing what had just occurred, Jacqueline stood from behind her hiding place and spoke with glee, "They're gone!" She grabbed her drenched and bedazzled husband and threw her arms around him. "He did it! He did it!" She was beside herself with mirth.

For the likes of him, he could not fathom what made his wife flip from despair to being so happy, and in the midst of a cloudburst at that. "Who did what?" he questioned. He stood there gleaming at her streaked and matted down hair and clothing, but not for long.

Jacqueline quickly grabbed a hold of his hand and dragged him off in a dash as she explained in a panting whisper, still being careful not to be overheard running about the rain-soaked streets of Paris in the middle of the night. "I prayed and asked God for a safe path for us. And he did it. He gave us a path in the storm." The overjoyed woman and befuddled man ran on in the torrential downpour.

Realizing that they were alone and not being pursued, he began to reconsider his original groaning against the rain. "Maybe this rain's a blessing after all," muttered d'Artagnan, as he ran alongside his wife and assessed its benefits. Mazarin's men would not be out until morning—that much he knew about the red-coated men. They had just been bought crucial time. They had until daybreak to find their way through the storm.


	11. Chapter 11

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 11**

**Rendezvous Points**

A good portion of the early morning hours it had poured, easing up at times only to a steady rain. Being Musketeers, the pair was used to being in even the most adverse of elements, and to their favor, the present downpour was at least a warm early summer watering.

Feeling danger behind them, they picked up in conversation to pass their long trek through the dense rain-soaked woods. D'Artagnan led the way and was still pondering over his wife's apparent belief that their nothing-short-of-miraculous escape had been orchestrated as a direct result of her prayer. "How do you do things like that?" he asked. "How do you know God is the one who caused it to rain when you asked him for a way out?" He glanced back at her inquisitively as they made their way along the trail. "I mean, how do you know it just didn't happen?"

Preoccupied with brushing a clump of overgrown branches aside that her husband had kept from snapping back at her, she answered, "If you mean, 'how do I know it's not a coincidence,' I suppose it's because I don't believe in coincidences." Continuing her dual absorption with the encumbering new spring growth and their casual talk about a serious matter, she explained, "I think we miss a lot of things because most of the time we're not paying attention to God's intervention." The female hiker stopped abruptly to keep from walking into her paused guide. Looking up from concentrating on the wet matted carpet of leaves, she noticed he was contemplating which fork in the trail to take next.

He turned to study his wife's tired face, and then thoughtfully removed a stray leaf lodged in her hair. Assessing her appearance, he pursed his lips and stated, more than questioned, "Then why are we in this mess?" Not waiting for an answer, he returned his attention to their positioning and pointed out the direction to take.

Resuming their unpleasant trail through the moisture-laden underbrush, she scornfully offered an answer, "Because people like Cardinal Mazarin choose to fly-in-the-face of God instead of choosing to live for him, like they're supposed to. And that makes everyone's life miserable."

D'Artagnan played the antagonist and nonchalantly voiced over his shoulder what he had heard so many other people say when it came to the difficult things of God. "Then why doesn't God just take him out? Why do so many innocent people have to suffer and die?" His tone ended on a note of irritation. He had wrestled with the meaning of these questions himself to no avail; for the most part, that was why he habitually left them alone.

Jacqueline halted in her steps to look at him, and profoundly stated, "If I were God, I could answer that, but I'm not. So, we'll just have to trust there's a reason. Besides, who's to say God won't take the Cardinal out? We can always hope Siroc and the others will uncover his heretic secrets in our absence." When he realized she was no longer following him, he turned and poised himself to listen. In his doing so, she raised a speculative brow at a growing thought. "You have to admit, if Mazarin and people like him weren't around, you might not be asking these kinds of questions about God. Hmm?" The soaked-to-the-skin woman produced a challenging smile. "I mean, why believe in God when everything's going fine and you see no need for him?"

D'Artagnan looked off to gather his thoughts, and then returned his gaze to matter-of-factly surmise, "I have to admit, you're right about one thing. Without an outright act of God, things look pretty hopeless—Mazarin is in power, Louis is in love with the Cardinal's niece and we're fugitives…" His brow knit as he brought up a change of subject and his voice became stern, "And speaking of hopeless, you have to let go of your fear of me dying because of your actions. I saw that look in your eyes back there when those guards were close to finding us." The back-tracking hiker stepped closer to her, bridging the gap between them. He wanted to deal with this right here and now.

Jacqueline became obviously agitated at his hitting upon a sore spot. Looking everywhere but at him, she stuttered, "D'Artagnan, it's just that…that I couldn't bear the loss of another person I love." Finally facing him, her eyes showed the haunting truth of his remark. In a moment of reliving the past, she revealed her heart. "My father was killed because I didn't obey him and stay in the barn when he told me to. And it was my brother who became a wanted man because he defended me…all due to my irresponsible actions," she answered, clearly angered at herself.

D'Artagnan wasn't about to let her follow through to her conclusion that she was responsible for all their fates. His face showed his adamant reproof. "No, Jacqueline, I won't let you think like that. Your father and brother chose to do the noble thing. To stand by and do nothing would have been the crime. You said so yourself in the past. And you can't stop me from doing what's right either. I chose to love you, marry you, pledge my heart and life to you…along with everything that comes with that. You can not, and I won't permit you to be responsible for my choices." In his firmness, his eyes betrayed the deep love he felt for her. Reaching out to her, he took hold of her hands and softened his voice, "Sweetheart, if I die in that choice, then I have lived my life to its fullest. Don't deny me of that."

Jacqueline breathed in sharply with the release of emotion that came in hearing his appeal. She had been so afraid and had buried it so well that she had not realized how much of a hurt she carried. The feeling had been oppressive, of bearing the responsibility for the deaths of those closest to her—her father, brother and the ever-present fear of losing d'Artagnan, too. But the man before her defied that logic. He had lovingly reminded her of each one's choice in the matter. And like them, she too had chosen. In this moment, the tormented woman stood there convinced that she had married the noblest man in all of France…perhaps on the entire earth. Throwing her arms around him, she felt the vibrancy and life in the man within her hold, and she wanted him to remain there forever. "I love you, d'Artagnan," she choked out, releasing her pent up fears in his shoulder.

"I love you too, Jacqueline," her husband relayed back in equaled feeling. He held her tightly in his grip, reassuring her of the passion in his statement. Sharing his life with this woman meant more to him than the life he could lay down for her; it came with accepting what was important to her as well. And he knew her faith in God anchored the core of her strength that kept her moving forward. Tenderly, after the moment of release had passed, he placed their foreheads together and shared a smile with her. In a lightened mood he relayed, "I guess we'll have to trust God has a plan for us then. What do you say?"

Jacqueline looked up at him in surprise at his mention of trusting God, but nodded her head in full agreement. She was sure God would never cease to amaze her through this man. He had just reminded her of what was important. Once again, she thanked their maker for putting them together.

D'Artagnan considered that he too had learned something about the nature of God in caring for another—love was a powerful motivator. As much as he loved Jacqueline, he thought he understood of little of what it must be like for God to love the people he made, and to want to take care of them. And at that moment an idea crossed his mind. It only made sense to d'Artagnan that if God had a plan for them, maybe he would be willing to let them in on it. With the suddenness of the thought, he drew back his head and his eyes connected with hers in question. "Would it be out of line to ask him to give us some clue of what he's up to?"

When Jacqueline said she didn't think so, the couple spent the next few quiet moments sorting through their thoughts before God.

oooooooo

Captain Duval entered the common dining room like he was on a mission from God that morning. His Musketeers were busily downing their light breakfasts before replacing their night-patrol counterparts. Finding Siroc in the crowd, he approached him with several sealed letters. Grimly, the business-like mentor extended the small collection of notes to the young soldier. "You'll be accompanying Ramon and the Spanish women to La Havre. See to it that they board their ship safely." He exchanged a solemn look and nodded his head curtly upon the completed transfer.

"Understood, Captain," was Siroc's short reply before Duval turned on his heel and recessed into his office. His captain's words were brief and spoken publicly; thus, having relayed more than what was merely stated to the observant recipient. Siroc understood his boss was under the scrutinizing watch of Cardinal Mazarin, who held him in suspicion for harboring and aiding fugitives. The scientist deducted that the suspect man wanted to build reliable alibis for his interactions until he could appeal to the king. Believing his analysis to be correct, the soldier perceived his captain's inability to speak freely meant he had put more than traveling orders in his entrusted hands. Quickly, the assignee slipped the papers securely into the breast of his jacket for later viewing and left the dining room to find his comrade.

The mission-minded Musketeer found Ramon outside the stable, preparing the carriage for the ride to the coast. The Spaniard had been up early and through his morning routine before the others. The poet had done so in order to allow more time with his Spanish rose before she left. As Siroc approached his comrade, he informed him, "I'll be coming with you." He looked around before taking the contents of his breast jacket out, and held the letters so his friend could also see what was written on them. The secretive man wanted the writing to be for their eyes only, and did not want to read anything aloud or have anyone around to see them reading. Being sure they were alone, he leafed through the letters. And as he suspected, he stopped and held up one that read: For expedient delivery to d'Artagnan.

The brothers-in-arms looked up at one another with a sense of urgency. If there had been any doubt their captain knew all matters concerning his men, this note removed any question. Captain Duval had perceived Ramon and Siroc knew the whereabouts of their fugitive comrades and trusted them to deliver his important message.

Without delay, the two men made haste to pick up their cargo of women, along with some unnoted incidentals, and leave Paris. When the carriage had cleared the outskirts of town, Rosa dared to peek from the window and ask, "Ramon, what's going on?" The Spanish woman was no fool at seeing the heavy air that hung around these men and notice their extra cargo and spare horses. But she had prudently waited until they were out of sight from prying eyes to ask her question. After their late night visit by the Cardinal's guards, she had correctly surmised that Jacqueline and d'Artagnan were in serious trouble. Seeing Ramon and Siroc's preoccupation that morning when their carriage arrived had removed all doubt.

From atop the carriage, the handsome Spaniard leaned over in the driver's seat to answer her inquiry in a hushed whisper. He covered-up his explanation of their duel mission from potential listening ears by speaking in their native tongue. Ramon finished by informing her to be ready for a small diversion to aid their comrades. Then all fell silent between the travelers as each kept to their own thoughts toward their friends they were on their way to meet.

oooooooo

It was mid-morning by the time the fleeing couple neared their rendezvous point pre-designated by d'Artagnan to their comrades. In their haste to leave the garrison, the only secretive place the young fugitive could think to meet at was the hot springs he had once taken Jacqueline to. Besides it being close enough to town to reach by foot, he was sure his wife knew where it was, in case something happened to him along the way. Of course, he had not told her that, but in the blur of the moment, he had instinctively covered the possibility of him having to sacrifice himself for her safety. As the agreement had been laid out, the married couple would wait for their friends at the springs, where they would be brought fresh clothing and fresh horses for whatever escape they had arranged.

"So, what made you think of this place?" Jacqueline finally broke the long silence since their last conversation. Recollecting, she had been to the springs only once, shortly after they had met, when her noble-minded d'Artagnan had saved an infant in a run-away horse cart. In handing the baby over to its mother, the rescuer had received a healthy 'christening' in his face from the male child. Eager to clean up, he took her to the nearby spring, not only to wash his face, but to entice her into bathing. In regards to the later objective, he only partially succeeded; she bathed, but without consenting to his company.

"Oh, it just happened to be close. And I doubt Mazarin's men would have little reason to know about this place. I'm sure they don't bathe, and I doubt a woman would want…" Looking uncomfortably back at his wife, he decided not to finish that statement. D'Artagnan was almost embarrassed to think back to his intentions at the time he brought his new patrol partner there. He had no idea the caliber of woman Jacqueline was then, and had grossly underestimated her and the kind of relationship he would eventually have with her. No woman had ever challenged his advances the way she had. Being the son of a legend, he had grown up thinking he was God's gift to women. It took the resistance of the woman trailing behind him to make him realize he wanted to be only one woman's gift.

Sensing his awkward pause, the tired hiker flatly replied, "Never mind, I'm sorry I asked." She had no intention of punishing him for his earlier behavior toward her, especially not now. She knew he saw her differently back then, and they had more important matters on their minds at present. And the thought of being washed and wearing clean clothing overruled any adverse memories she had for the hot springs. Besides, they would draw less attention to themselves if they didn't look like they spent all night out in the elements. Mazarin's men knew they were looking for fugitives who had escaped on foot in the middle of a storm.

D'Artagnan began to give serious thought to where they would go from there. He did not like admitting that he was not sure, even though he knew he would figure it out. Jacqueline would be dependant upon his knowledge of unknown territory. She had never traveled like he had in his younger years.

The venturous man considered that one advantage of being the son of a legend was that his father knew a lot of people who would be willing to help him. It had been some time since he had seen any of them and he had hoped to visit again on better terms. Yes, on one hand, he was bringing his bride for them to meet, but, on the other hand, he would also be bringing trouble. The thought of him returning, bearing such paradoxes, made him sigh. He could almost feel them now, brazenly slapping him on the back with laughter, saying, they would expect nothing less from a d'Artagnan.

The legend's son had hoped for a better name for himself, but, he considered, if it couldn't be helped, then so be it, he was a d'Artagnan, and so was Jacqueline now. Trouble or not, it was good to know there were people willing to help them for who they were, instead of who Cardinal Mazarin said they were. Fortifying his resolve, he knew that where ever they went, a friend of his father's would be a friend of theirs. At least in this case, his inherited reputation would serve in their favor.

Reaching their destination, they stood side by side and looked longingly at the hot water before them. "Well, there's no reason for us to take turns," d'Artagnan stated the obvious. "Last one in…" But he never finished saying what the last one in was going be, because Jacqueline had deviously shoved him in, clothes and all, before he had a chance to say it.

A submerged and shocked d'Artagnan resurfaced to look up at his laughing wife standing near the pool. "What was that for?" he questioned in befuddlement as he spat water out of his mouth.

Jacqueline attempted to answer between peals of laughter when a voice came from behind her, "I hate to interrupt your fun, but you know we heard you all the way from the road. You really should keep it down." The surprised female abruptly stopped her laughter as d'Artagnan and she turned to see Siroc standing there with a parcel in his hands.

Jacqueline's attempted words to her newly arrived friend were cut short when d'Artagnan reached up and tugged the back of her dress to pull her off her feet. She squelched a scream as she splashed, fully clothed, alongside her retributive husband. Stifling their laughter, the couple forgot Siroc's presence and continued their water fight by splashing and dunking one another.

The dry man standing with the parcel shook his head, and may as well have spoken to the trees. "Don't mind me. I'll just set these down right over here. You two join us when you're ready." Surrendering any hope of being heard, he awkwardly set the bundle down on a bed of ferns. He took one last look at the playful couple, amazed that he was witnessing two people with a price on their heads, and turned to leave them alone.


	12. Chapter 12

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 12**

**Shadows from the Past**

Siroc, Ramon and the occupants in the carriage patiently waited on the road for the d'Artagnans to change and join them. Once again, the three sisters found themselves serving as a cover for their Musketeer friends. This time, Rosa, Dora and Maria's queen-guaranteed passage provided for the couple's expedient departure from Paris without raising the attention of the Cardinal's men. The red-coated men, who were currently turning the town upside down looking for the fugitives, had approved their travel orders that morning without incident. The legitimate, but covert, coast-bound entourage had packed fresh clothes and fresh mounts for Jacqueline and d'Artagnan to aid in their escape. But it was the note of importance in Siroc's safe-keeping that made the group anxious for the couple's appearance.

When the man and wife emerged from the wooded hot springs recluse, they were refreshed and wore their civilian clothing. Around Jacqueline's neck, she wore the cross necklace that had not left her possession since Gerard had returned it to her.

Siroc immediately met d'Artagnan with the sealed letter Captain Duval gave him to deliver. Handing it over with urgency, he solidly clasped his friend on the arm to convey his condolences for the predicament they were in. Furthermore, the blond-haired man took it upon himself to deliver the bad news that Cardinal Mazarin had based the arrest warrant upon. "Apparently, Mazarin somehow made connections between Jacqueline and Jacques, and then connected you with harboring and concealing her..."

"If that's the case," Jacqueline spoke up, interrupting Siroc, "then Captain Duval and the Musketeers could be in serious trouble." When the implications of the charges dawned on her, she closed her eyes, grieving the repercussions of her actions.

D'Artagnan placed his hand on her arm to bring her back to her senses. His solemn glance reminded her of the conversation they had earlier about rightfully placing the blame. And in his eyes she could see his anger toward the Cardinal set like flint.

He was right, this was Mazarin's attempt to destroy their lives as well as ruin the Musketeers. Yet, she could not help carrying some of the blame for her part in willfully misleading people to think she had been someone that she had not been. It had been her choice to become Jacques Leponte.

The Frenchman's attention returned to the letter with a frown. Noting that its delivery accompanied such grave news, he considered that it might contain a final word from his captain. He nodded at Siroc in acknowledgement of its receipt, and turned to open and pour over it in private. In the letter, Duval explained that he had contingency plans in place for Jacqueline and him ever since their trip to Marseille. It went on to state that after Jacqueline's acquittal, he had hoped there would be no need to enact them, but was nevertheless thankful for having kept them in order. After ending his correspondence with an appeal to God for their deliverance, the captain placed one odd phrase at the bottom of the page. Looking up from the letter, d'Artagnan read aloud in startled revelation, "La Porte House, Vestige."

Not understanding what he meant, the inquisitive courier asked, "So what does 'la porte house vestige' mean?"

D'Artagnan had not realized he had spoken out loud, and looked around to see everyone's eyes glued upon him. He turned business-like as he shoved the note in his vest. Taking a deep breath, he looked at the ensemble and smugly chose his words with care. "It means that Jacqueline and I are going to meet up with some old…scoundrels." Turning to his quizzical faced wife, he added sarcastically for her sake, "Your type of men. You'll love them."

Somehow, the still-in-the-dark woman doubted he meant just that and hoped he would expound on his statement. When he did not, but instead pressed his way past the dumbfounded group, Jacqueline felt slighted at his secretiveness. What did her husband know about this 'la porte house vestige' that triggered this kind of reaction from him? And why could he not share it with his friends? She wondered as her eyes followed him.

D'Artagnan paused for a moment and turned back to Jacqueline. Leaning over toward her ear, he said in a lowered voice, "I'm guessing this is our 'clue' we asked for." His lively eyes darted to and fro in thought. But without further comment, he walked off toward his horse.

Those were not exactly the words Jacqueline had been hoping for, and they certainly had not shed any light on what the mysterious note had meant; except that, obviously d'Artagnan knew what it stood for, and he wasn't talking.

Whatever it implied, he did not look relieved to have received it. Growing antsier by the moment, the nobly dressed man called out, "Well, we're not getting anywhere just standing around here talking about it. Let's get moving." He sat astride his horse and saw that everyone was still hoping for some explanation from him. All he appeased them with was, "We'll follow you until we reach Rouen, then we'll have to part ways."

Rouen. The town's name rang as an evil omen in Jacqueline's ears. She was not superstitious—she believed that God was the final authority in all matters—but the town held its dark history. It had been there, in the Old Market Square, that Joan of Arc had been burned at the stake on the charges of heresy and wearing masculine clothing. She looked at her friend, Ramon, and gave a short, pathetic chuckle. She could hear her poetic friend romanticizing the whole situation by telling her to look at the bright side. After she was put to death, like Joan of Arc, twenty-five years from now her name would be cleared and the Catholic Church would canonize her as a Saint. The wanted woman didn't find much comfort in the thought and the ominous parallels gave her the chills. Crossing her arms to calm her nerves, she bit her lip as she looked around at the small band of loyal friends. She prayed that whatever difficult path lie ahead, that God would be with them all.

When the group realized they would get nothing more out of d'Artagnan, regarding Captain Duval's letter, they grudgingly put themselves into motion. Sensing the encrypted words had somehow riled their comrade, causing him to seek solitude, they left him alone. A disappointed Jacqueline gave her husband one last worried look and climbed into the carriage to join the sisters. They were on their way.

D'Artagnan eagerly rode ahead of the group for a time before Siroc suggested the fugitive Musketeer sit inside the carriage, out of sight. They were nearing Rouen and the intuitive man felt it was only a matter of time before they ran into the Cardinal's men. Although the wanted man was not keen on joining the four women, with a sigh of resignation, he took the advice of his blond-haired comrade.

Entering the coach, he gave a un-d'Artagnan-like brief word of greeting to Rosa, Dora and Maria, and placed a placid kiss on his wife's hand. Seating himself across from Jacqueline on the rear bench, he turned to face the rear window, where he slit the fabric enough to focus his attention to their rear guard. Rubbing his tired eyes, he then withdrew to the company of his own thoughts for the duration of their passage.

His wife was puzzled at his odd behavior. She studied this new side of d'Artagnan. What could possibly have been said in the captain's letter to have brought such a change over him? It was like a dark cloud suddenly came over him. Even in their fleeing earlier that day, he had carried her with his optimism. His characteristic cavalier attitude had been immediately replaced with a distracted irritability. It made her feel tense and she sensed the tension in him too.

"Don't worry, Jacqueline," an intuitive Rosa consoled when she saw the worried look on her friend's face. The Spanish woman recalled her confidant's words that were meant to be an encouragement for her the other day, 'We never know exactly what we'll do until we're faced with our trials. We just have to be sure who we are before we face them.' How much had changed in this dear acquired sister's life. The woman about to embark on her own uncharted journey's heart went out to her. She placed a caring hand on the Frenchwoman's wrist and looked compassionately into her troubled eyes. "I know that whatever will happen, your noble characters will lead you both in the right actions."

Jacqueline smiled weakly, hoping to relay appreciation of Rosa's kind words. But she could not get her mind off where they were heading and her husband's uncharacteristically dark mood. Unable to hold even a front of civility, her eyes drifted to the passing scenery outside the curtained windows. Eventually, the sound of the carriage wheels drowned out her thoughts, and the coach's shuddering motion numbed her frayed nerves.

Thinking better to cover the distance in silence, Siroc informed Ramon that he would ride ahead a short way and forewarn them of any impending trouble. Likewise, Ramon would drive the carriage, while d'Artagnan would keep a watchful eye on their rear through the carriage window. No one spoke in the surmounting suspense; it was not a matter of if, but of when they would have their encounter.

As suspected, Siroc spotted an upcoming blockade and slowed his mount to give the appropriate warning signal to Ramon. The forerunner once again strained his eyes to clarify a strange familiarity about one of the guards he saw. In his positive identification of the red-coated dupe, the scientist grumbled, "Oh, no, not him."

By this time, Siroc's horse had fallen back close enough to the pacing carriage for the Spaniard to overhear his groaning comrade. "Him?" he asked and knit his brows in question.

Siroc brought his horse alongside the carriage. "Him," repeated the blond-haired man with disdain. "He's the same guard from the palace the other day." Looking at Ramon, the man on horseback gestured with a twitch of his head toward two red-clad men on the road. Seeing his comrade was still in the dark, he rolled his eyes and reluctantly expounded, "The one I had to knock out." His tone of voice relayed the repulsion he felt toward the philandering henchman. The disturbing memory made the man formerly disguised in the alias of Sophia shudder at the sight of him.

To the previous enactor's favor, Ramon pieced together the events and an enlightened look crept over his face. "Ah!" he exclaimed. With a growing, reflective grin and a shake of his head, he prodded. "You know, I doubt you have anything to worry about, amigo. Your admirer will not recognize you without your makeup on." The poet stifled back his laughter. He thought it almost poetic that his ingenious friend always managed to attract the unexpected in his cleverly thought out schemes.

The loathsome feeling Musketeer gave his comrade a dry look and said, "Be quiet, Ramon." Reluctant to face any more humiliation from his taunting friend, the rider fell back to knock on the carriage door and inform its occupants of their impending stop. He warned d'Artagnan not to try anything, but rather to stay down and out of sight. Having relayed his caution, Siroc rode ahead to meet the guards.

When they arrived at the checkpoint, Mazarin's men asked the escorting soldiers to produce their papers and state their business.

Not wanting to be noticed by the previously acquainted palace guard, Siroc cleared his throat to make sure he spoke in a commanding, masculine tone. "We're headed for Le Havre. We have three sisters and their handmaid, who have been guaranteed safe passage from the queen. They're due to set sail first thing tomorrow morning." He treated their encounter casually, but with urgency. The Musketeer hoped that the mention of a handmaid would give Jacqueline excuse for being in the carriage, should they actually want to look inside. But he hoped he would be able to keep the guards from feeling the need to search the carriage. If the paperwork and his act were convincing, he might just succeed. The quick-thinking inventor had fooled this unscrupulous guard once, and it gave him confidence he could do it again.

The philandering man from the palace looked at the orders while the second guard walked around the carriage. The later man scrutinized the transport, as if in doing so it would reveal something crucial to him. The first guard, reviewing the orders, looked suspiciously at Siroc and questioned, "You wouldn't have seen a man and woman traveling by foot along the way…would you?" He handed the pass back to Siroc and extended a piece of parchment of his own with a hastily sketched picture of Jacqueline and d'Artagnan on it.

"No," Siroc flatly answered, looking the guard straight in the face without even so much as glancing at the poster.

Seeing that no further reply was to be gained, the guard nodded at his examining companion to go ahead with the investigation of the carriage. "Then we'll have to search you," he said to the unforthcoming Musketeer.

The brothers-in-arms pricked, but held their ground. If necessary, they were ready to deal with these two henchmen. In particular, the coach occupants had been listening for cues of what may befall them. Hearing the approaching guard, d'Artagnan slowly rose from his position on the floor to crouch in front of the door.

Jacqueline shook her head at him and sternly mouthed the word 'no.' But seeing the returned glare on her husband's face convinced her he was not in the mood for talking things out. Preparing herself for whatever rash move he was about to make, she found her rapier. It had been placed in the carriage for an emergency such as this. Waiting, she wrapped her hand tightly around its hilt. In the last approaching moments she glanced at her three Spanish friends, and gave them a solemn nod of warning to gird themselves for action.

A tense, but reassuring Rosa met Jacqueline's eyes in understanding. She had no doubt this feminine Musketeer was fully capable of wielding the weapon she held, but the sight was a revelation to her. To see Jacqueline poised in ready confidence, placed a new respect in the Spanish woman's mind of her endeared friend.

Unlike her sister, the scene frightened Maria, and she moved closer into the eldest's protective arms to await the anticipated battle.

Dora sat quietly in the protective lee of Jacqueline, leaning as far back on the shared bench as possible from the door.

As soon as the carriage door swung open, d'Artagnan's fist met the startled guard's face, sending him sprawling backwards to the ground. He was laid out cold.

Siroc's quick thinking detained the second guard's approach to the carriage. "I wouldn't get any closer if I were you. My sister may be shy, but she doesn't take too kindly to strange men peeking in on her."

D'Artagnan listened to Siroc's intrigue and detained his bailment from the carriage. He understood his comrade was attempting to deter further conflict.

The palace guard did a double-take on the cautioning Musketeer and eyed him for recognition. Finding a familiarity in the blond man's face, he asked, "By any chance, was your sister in the company of three Spanish women at the palace the other day?"

Siroc crossed his arms casually over the front of his saddle and looked the man smugly in the eyes. "The very one," he stated, matter-of-factly.

Alarmed at the reminder of his unpleasant experience with the shy blond-haired woman at the palace, and the association she had with this Musketeer, the guard gave another glance at his unconscious partner and hastily waved the group on. "Go," he said, "move along your way." He was anxious to put this memory behind him as well as the previous one in Paris.

Moving along, the entourage did not have to go far before seeing the rooftops of Rouen. D'Artagnan requested the carriage stop and informed the group that Jacqueline and he would be parting their company. He was certain the guard he had rendered unconscious had gotten a glimpse of him. When the man came to, the fugitive knew Mazarin's men would be all over the area searching for them. They would have to take their chances alone now and part with the others.

There was a quick round of hugs and mention of God's best for all, and the young married couple left their friends and headed north on horseback. Concurrently, Ramon and Siroc continued on to the port of La Havre with Rosa and her sisters.

Jacqueline's parting was one of mixed feelings. Although she was only too relieved to put distance between her and the ill-omened city of Rouen, she would miss the bond she had felt with these three women of strength and integrity. The fleeing woman hoped all would go well for her sailing friends in the Americas. Her heart tugged for Ramon and Rosa. And in the sacrifice the Spanish man and woman were making for one another, she couldn't help being reminded of the sacrifice that d'Artagnan had made for her. The outcomes were different, but in either case, love had cost something. The bitter sweetness in Jacqueline's heart bore testimony of that truth.

ooooooo

For two days the d'Artagnans rode hard and stopped only to rest, eat and tend to their horses. Jacqueline could tell their course paralleled the coast; yet, they kept to an inland route to hide their positioning in the woods. There were few people on the back roads and plenty of underbrush to get lost in, should the need arise to dodge capture. All the wife of the driven man could do was to keep up with her husband's maddening pace. Jacqueline followed; she had no idea where they were headed. His words were few and he still had not said anything to her concerning Captain Duval's mysterious note.

On the third morning of their ride, they approached the port town of Calais in northern France. D'Artagnan dismounted his horse on the edge of a large grassed area and removed its reins to allow the belabored animal its freedom. Siroc and Ramon had not wanted to tip off to anyone that they would be meeting the favored riders of the dark bay and dapple gray, so they left their horses in the stables and took two well-trained distance runners instead. The Musketeers would lose two fine horses to the locals of Calais, but the young man found some solace in knowing that his own patrol assistant would go to Ramon's stead. Encouraging Jacqueline to do the same and loose her mount, he informed, "We won't need them where we're going."

After a parting moment with his gallant companion, who had fared him well over the last several days, he turned his attention to rummaging through the contents of his saddlebag. Finding a few of Siroc's creative handiworks, tailored for the female Musketeer, he tossed them to Jacqueline. None of it was Musketeer issue; thus, nothing was traceable to their former association with the king's soldiers.

Without waiting for her to ask questions, he pointed out a building near the dock. On the sign were the words: La Porte House. "We'll be going in there to…book passage—" he looked at her dubiously and added "—more or less."

In the midst of watching d'Artagnan assess their arsenal, Jacqueline quickly suspected that her husband's alluded 'booked passage' would be more accurately stated as hijacking a boat. The sign on the building, she could equate to the words 'La Porte House,' but what about the word 'vestige?' Any way she looked at the whole matter, she was nervous. First, she had no idea where they were going, and why taking a boat by force was necessary. Second, and probably the most unnerving, was that she had un-admittedly never voyaged on the open sea before. Little river boats were the extent of her experience; never had she been on the untamed ocean. The daunted thought made her feel nauseated. But the feeling of queasiness in her stomach and her unpleasant thoughts were cut short by her conspiring partner's placement of a rapier in her already laden hands.

"Here, you're going to need this," he warned, before beginning his decent toward town.

Furrowing her brow at his unexplained behavior, she quickly shoved the smaller objects into her Siroc-engineered dress pockets and gripped the hilt of her rapier in her right hand. She stepped quickly to catch up with him and asked, "And when were you going to let me in on your little secret and tell me why we're about to steal someone's boat?" Jacqueline looked cross. "For that matter, can you tell me what we're going to do with it once we get it? I've never been on—let alone navigated—a sea-going vessel, have you?"

D'Artagnan impatiently looked back at her, and answered, "Porthos taught me the basics of handling a ship, and who said anything about stealing it? Now, would you like to stand here and continue asking me these questions or are we going to get going?" He did not wait for her to answer, but resumed his pace toward the port house.

His last statement pricked her the wrong way. As she felt the past three days worth of irritation and grief well up in her, she was sure if she had not grown to trust him over the past year, she would have smacked him and left him right then and there. 'What ever had gotten into him?' She fumed.

On occasion, d'Artagnan would go off on one of his hell-bent missions and drag the others into it with him. Being convinced he was right about something, he would dangerously walk the line of insubordination. He had blatantly disobeyed his own father's orders on a hunch once. And on another occasion, he had pressured her into playing the part of an informant, when he suspected love might have been making a fool out of Captain Duval. His unpredictability and fearlessness drove her crazy. And at the same time it made her respect him. Jacqueline breathed out heavily; she would trust him and follow.

The two well-armed fugitives approached the sparsely windowed port house making sure no one saw them. Sneaking behind the building, they found an unlocked door where d'Artagnan stole a peek inside. Assessing the occupancy, he held up two fingers to signify two men to be inside. He nodded to Jacqueline to prepare for a quick entry.

On the count of three, the two burglars burst open the door and were upon the startled port-master and guard before they knew what happened. The element of surprise was clearly in their favor. D'Artagnan held the guard at sword-point, while Jacqueline put the tip of her rapier at the neck of the seated port-master. At her beckoning, the seated man slowly turned his chair about to face his female assaulter. Trembling with fear, the thin official put his hands in the air to await further command. The female swordsman glanced at her accomplice to make sure he had the situation under control, and then quickly made her way to the front door to place the 'closed' sign on it and bolt it shut.

"Well, are you going to stand there and waste all of our time by making me hunt for the cuffs or are you going to provide them for me?" D'Artagnan arrogantly prodded the guard into action with word and sword.

A stunned and obviously inexperienced shipyard guard fumbled into motion to reveal a drawer full of metal cuffs.

"Good—" d'Artagnan motioned with the tip of his rapier toward the drawer "—now place them on our friend here, and then put a pair on your own feet."

Although Jacqueline was not keen on what they were doing and still was not exactly sure why they were doing it, she had her own contributing idea. "You—" she gestured commandingly toward the port-master "—take your clothes off first."

Her startled husband shifted his eyes toward her in question. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"How do you think I got those clothes I had on the day we first met?" she pertly replied. Since their 'wanted poster' depicted a man and woman, she figured it would be less conspicuous for two men to be approaching the dock than for a couple. Hopefully the disguise would buy them enough time to secure their boat and be on their way before the two shackled men in the port house were discovered. Looking at the stalled port master, she re-instigated, "Well, come on, we haven't got all day."

The corner of d'Artagnan's mouth rose in amusement. "I'm hurt, you never held me at sword-tip to make me undress for you," he suggestively relayed.

"As I recall, you never needed the encouragement," she retorted.

As they waited for the men to finish carrying out their orders, d'Artagnan shot Jacqueline a combined look of bothered admiration. "Dear, remind me to have a little talk with you about your forward behavior with strange men."

She scrunched her face and dealt him a perturbed glance, but ironically felt relieved to see his cavalier attitude return. She had to admit, the man was in his element when he was in action. Quickly, she gathered the port master's shed clothing and pulled it into a bundle. Scanning the room, she sought a place to convert her appearance.

"You two keep your eyes on me," d'Artagnan commanded the captive men, while Jacqueline went to a private corner in the back and changed. Keeping a raised sword on his charge, and an interested eye on his wife's undressing, he concurrently rummaged through the dock manifests on the master's desk. Finding what he was looking for, he patiently waited for his partner in crime to don her borrowed clothes. As a last act, he gagged the men before exiting through the back door with his spurious male sailing partner.

Slipping down to the dock, Jacqueline slung a duffel bag with her dress in it over her shoulder and pulled her hair back in a queue. As an afterthought, she stuffed her cross pendant on the inside of her clothing out of sight. In her hastiness to hone her male appearance, she wanted to remove any outward sign of her femininity. 'Temporarily,' she told herself. As much as she had come to feel at home in men's pants, she much preferred the soft fabric in the dresses she rightfully wore as a Viscompte's wife. To assure she had women's clothing to wear when they arrived at where ever they were going, she had stuffed them in a sack she found lying in the port house.

"There!" he said, pointing out a boat in a slip. "The Vestige." A wide grin swept over his face as he looked at his wife. Events apparently were unfolding as planned. The docking manifests had led him directly to the correct slip without searching the entire port by foot.

As he had stated, Jacqueline peered to see the name 'Vestige' written on the side of a small sailing vessel. "Now, all we have to do is get ourselves down there and shove off." She said lightly, but her mannerisms betrayed her doubt that it would be that simple.

Already on the dock with only a short distance to go, the couple heard a shout from behind and turned to see a half-shackled port guard frantically waving for the attention of his comrades. He had somehow managed to get himself partially free from his cuffs, and dragged the rest with him. "All right, so maybe it won't be that easy," d'Artagnan stated. He clenched his teeth and picked up their already rushed pace. It was only a matter of time before they were spotted. "My dear—" he suddenly stopped and pulled her between two crates "—I don't believe we're going to make it to the Vestige." Not far ahead of them—between them and their boat—was another port guard, slowly walking their way. He had been casually walking the dock, but now was focused in on the commotion at the port house.

Just then, Jacqueline felt a strange undulating movement under her feet. Her heart beat wildly at the realization of what was happening. "D'Artagnan, we're moving!" she spoke in a shrill whisper. Her jaw dropped in shock as she gaped at her husband. Panic set in. "Well, we can't just stand here, we need to do something."

"I know, I know," he chimed in frustration. He too, had noticed the sea-going motion and widening gap between the deck where they stood and the dock that led to the Vestige. He slowly looked around to assess their situation; he saw nothing but guards, everywhere. Hunkering down and pulling Jacqueline with him, he exasperated, "We're going to have to take our chances on this ship, unless we want to be spotted."

"Take our chance on this ship!" she echoed in sheer horror, squatting next to him between the crates. "What do you mean, 'take our chance'?" By this time, the young woman looked about to jump ship and put an end her rapid departure from shore.

D'Artagnan grabbed her arm firmly and held her in place. He tried reasoning with her. "This isn't a large ship, it can't be going far. Trust me." He looked back at the ship they had unknowingly hitched a ride on to size up its capabilities. At least he hoped it wouldn't be going far. Evidently, it was a cargo ship that seemed in a rush to leave port, having left much of its cargo still needing to be hoisted to the deck. That was precisely where the couple stood, on the cargo hoist. "It seems someone on this ship is in a hurry to leave after seeing all those guards come out. My guess is that someone onboard is involved in illegal activity."

"Great, just what we need!" she sounded back, not dropping a single notch in her hysterical whispering tone. "More trouble!" Her eyes still darted back and forth at the water in consideration of chancing a swim.

"Wait, Jacqueline, calm down. If they're trying to avoid authorities, then we couldn't be in a better place, could we?" he said optimistically. But, his face betrayed the typical 'd'Artagnan look' he donned when he was blindly forging risky ventures that usually backfired on him.

Not coming up with any better ideas, and realizing her opportunity to jump overboard was quickly slipping away, Jacqueline leaned her weight on the side of the crate and slid down to a surrendered sitting position. Sighing deeply, she stared out at the receding dockyard in a trance. "So I guess our plans to meet whomever it was we were going to meet, are washed out to sea," she droned in a melancholy tone.

Still in his squat position behind her, d'Artagnan looked at his wife's land-locked gaze and put a reassuring hand on her arm. "I wouldn't give up hope on them just yet. They'll come looking for us."

With sudden reanimation, she whirled on him to ask, "How would they even know to look for us? You didn't even tell Siroc and Ramon where we were going. Who's going to find these…people, whoever they are, and tell them we're on a ship…that we don't even know where it's going?" her voice became strained and her face lined with tension. The thought that he had told no one, not even her, what the mysterious note from Duval meant, angered her. And now, she felt his reluctance had cost them any chance of recovery.

Rubbing his hands up and down her sleeved arms to calm her nerves, d'Artagnan reminded her, "You're forgetting that Captain Duval knew where we were heading." He glanced seaward, as if choosing carefully the words to tell her; deciding, he met her eyes. "And knowing the captain, he's already sent a message ahead to inform them we were on our way. When we don't show up, they're bound to come after us."

An incredulous Jacqueline stared at her husband in bafflement. "Just like that," she said. "You're sure of that?"

Saying nothing, but pushing his bottom lip out, he shrugged his shoulders as if to say, there was nothing wrong with his logic.

A displeased and confused woman fidgeted in his hold. Sensing there was still much of the puzzle she was missing she pushed him away and pouted. "You keep saying, 'they.' What's the big secret? Who are these people? And why do you feel that you can't even tell me?" She crossed her arms, feeling the hurt that he had excluded her from something as important as this. Didn't he trust her?

Gathering himself on how to bring her more fully into his withheld knowledge, he turned to clench the ribs on the crate they were wedged between with his gloved hands. Again, his gaze met the sea. Sighing to relieve his own pent-up tension, he finally let out a pitiful laugh. "These people—" he shot her a rustled up look "—these scoundrels that I'm being so protective of, are none other than my uncles."

"Your uncles?" Jacqueline's face contorted in even greater confusion.

"Uncles," flatly repeated the surrendering informant, who now leaned his full weight back on the wooden box separating him from the sea.

"Uncles." she softly restated, still sounding somewhat perplexed to whom he exactly alluded to, but having a growing idea.

All doubt of their mysterious identity being removed when he spoke their names, "Aramis, Porthos and Athos." While he looked relieved to have shared their identity with Jacqueline, d'Artagnan's countenance hinted that he was relaying much more to her than their names. There was a wealth of history that only having grown up with the famous men could account for behind those lively brown eyes of his.

Jacqueline's mouth slowly opened as the realization hit her that she had been about to meet the famed Musketeers her husband casually referred to as 'uncles.' The stunned woman recalled now how odd she thought it was that the man she married rarely mentioned these men he had grown up with. She had just assumed he avoided the topic on the same grounds he disliked talk of his father—their stories were stale to him. Yet, at Louis' coronation, it had bothered her that the famous three had been missing. But she had been preoccupied with her own impending acquittal and had never asked him why.

Her thoughts returned to the present. Were the three men in hiding? Had they fallen to hard times, or were they at odds with the throne of France? So many questions ran through Jacqueline's mind in regards to these legendary men. D'Artagnan had referred to them as scoundrels. But why had her husband been so hesitant to breach the subject, even now? His wife had not even suspected he knew of their whereabouts, but Duval's note supported otherwise. Evidently, there were more secrets this man kept than hers. Would she be asking him to breach an oath in wanting him to tell her about them now? They were married. Would that make any difference? It should, she believed. Jacqueline looked at him thoughtfully; unless he feared her knowing about them would jeopardize either them or her.

At that moment they felt the cargo hoist begin to jerk slowly upward. From the deck they heard a man yelling in English, saying, "Get these things aboard before we draw attention for having cargo hanging off the side of our ship. Bloody imbeciles! Aboard this ship, we are England, and these are His Majesty, King Charles II's goods. Now, get moving!"

When d'Artagnan heard the destination of their boat to be England, and the name, King Charles II, his heart stopped. He turned to look at the pale-faced woman beside him in mirrored sentiment. Right then and there, he wished he had jumped into the water and surrendered himself to the port guards along with his wife when he had his chance to.


	13. Chapter 13

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 13**

**Maiden Voyage**

With the shoreline of France quickly receding in the background, Jacqueline's maiden voyage had gotten off to its precarious start. The young woman, still dressed in the Calais port master's clothing, realized that the entire discussion d'Artagnan and she just had about meeting his uncles was no longer relevant. They were now on a ship bound for British soil on an unstoppable collision course with the king of England, Scotland and Wales. Regardless of who might come looking for them, they needed a contingency plan and they needed it quickly; they were about to be discovered by the ship's crew.

Eventually, the cargo hoist leveled with the deck. And there, sitting among the crates, were two Frenchmen, or what looked like two Frenchmen, one actually being a woman in disguise. The roughened sea dog cranking the hoist stopped mid-heave—more amused than surprised. He had just gotten his oxen-like body leveraged for another good spin on the large wheel when his eyes caught sight of the two stowaways. Turning his head toward the helm on the upper deck, he bellowed, "Cap'n!"

A well-barreled man with long dark curly hair and a crude presentation of air, hollered back, "What is it man? What's all this yelling about? I told you to get those goods on board!"

Without a word, the beckoning sailor gestured in the direction of the hoist. Holding the crank where it froze the moment he laid eyes on their guests, he eagerly awaited his captain's response.

Descending the steps, the master of the English vessel approached. Spanning in to graze his peculiar cargo like a fully gunned warship, he drew up his embellished coat collar and stiffened his posture. His hair, dark as night, and skin, weathered as rawhide, framed and matted his prominent facial feature—his large tale-filled, yet intelligent eyes. One could imagine that as a youth he had seen impressions unfit to leave the confines of a ship, and having done so, his orbs had swollen to their enlarged visage and remained permanently in their state of self-contained nightmares. Still young and on the rising side of his career, he fastidiously built his acclaim on his apparel and mannerisms. His attire was expensive and decorative—flaunting his success. Yet, to the first-time beholder, he unquestioningly signified a capable man of the hardened life at sea.

Loosening his grip on one of his lapels, he bid his live goods to step forward from the hoist with a motioning hand. In a distinctly English accent, he impatiently sounded, "Come here…haven't got all day. Let me see the likes of you. And pray, tell, why is it that you are among His Majesty's freight?" His gravelly, baritone rumble boomed out to be heard over the roaring sounds of the sea.

D'Artagnan and Jacqueline rose slowly to their feet and stepped off the wooden platform to stand before the summoning leader. Having foreseen their discovery, they had hastily stashed their rapiers amid the stacks of cargo in hopes they could claim them later. With their bulkier weapons off their persons, they put forth the outward appearance of two unfortunate souls caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Inwardly, the trained soldiers assessed their opposition. Although the pair saw that this autocrat was younger and most likely not as experienced as their captain, they both knew to underestimate his influence within this barnacle-cloistered colony would be a mistake.

Disembarking the hoist from behind his wife, d'Artagnan's hidden position allowed him to whisper, "He may be able to be swayed, but we'll have to walk the line carefully."

To the gathering crew's amazement—and to Jacqueline's—the dark-haired Frenchman unexpectedly strode to the forefront of his comrade and returned the captain's words to his face. "And what, pray tell, are you doing with all that cargo that hasn't made it through French inspections?" As d'Artagnan challenged the head man, he gestured toward the hoist behind him in his un-intimidated manner.

'So much for walking a careful line,' Jacqueline thought, gasping at her husband in wide-eyed disbelief. She felt the hair on her neck stand on end as it occurred to her that they'd most likely be walking the plank if he kept on his present course of action.

Along with the shock of the covert female, the whole deck of sailors _oohed_ at the nobleman's bravado. Murmured bets passed amongst them as they pressed around to witness the show-down between their stalwart leader and this cocky Frenchman. Their wagers weren't who would come out of top of this match, but how badly the over-confident noble and his accomplice would fare in the outcome.

The stone-faced sea captain sized up his challenger and answered, "Let me guess. You're here to represent the Calais porter and make the inspection?" While his words made light of the nobleman's defiance, his glare was meant to pierce through this man who had the nerve to stand up to him.

Relieved laughter waved through the deck hands once again. Apparently, they inferred their captain was in the mood for sport, rather than vengeance.

With eyes still locked on the outsider's un-intimidated stare, the captain dodged d'Artagnan's directness with a politically glossed over response. "Let's just say, we're a part of His Majesty's commercial expansion on the seas." He matched the Frenchman's ante with a raised brow and grin. Then, he factitiously turned to grace his good-humored audience with a sporting smirk. Yes, he would keep this light for the moment, he decided, until he found out more about his dubious passengers.

Continuing to eye them cautiously, the rich, but motley clad man made introduction. "I'm Captain Morgan, and this—" he gestured about him as if presenting them to his ship "—is my lady, the _Maiden Castle_." Dropping the pretense of pleasantries, he moved in with a nod of his black-tasseled head and gravely asked, "Now, the question is, who are you?" With his teeth grating and his eyes darting to and fro, he paused in consideration.

Behind the mask of sporting fun, d'Artagnan and Jacqueline could see he was dead serious. They did not have to be forward thinkers to equate that Captain Morgan's job was one of a commandeering pirate. Like the cargo they had been hoisted with, the couple knew that they would also have to present themselves in some rough terms of worth if their lives were to be spared. Both doubted that revealing their _d'Artagnan_ name would be an asset, but rather they concluded it would rally the Englishman's hostility toward the relations of a renowned French soldier.

Even Jacqueline, who had logged no previous hours at sea, knew that prisoners aboard privateer vessels were reputedly treated with a lack of civility. Fretting over the possible value they held in which to salvage themselves with before these hungered onlookers, she guardedly moved back-to-back with her husband. It didn't help calm her nerves to know that even their own country had a price on their heads. On a long-shot, the only leverage she could place to their favor was their remote acquaintance with England's king. And the precariousness of that connection made her shudder. She would not play that bargaining chip unless it was absolutely necessary.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, than d'Artagnan concessively doled out, "Why don't you tell these boys that you personally know their king…Charles." His nonchalant demeanor had suddenly turned to one of nervous laughter.

Jacqueline spun around to shoot him an incredulous look, only to gasp at the sight of a pistol being pointed their way. From beyond where her companion recoiled with his hands up, a well-bred, no doubt, high-ranking shipmen indifferently awaited his captain's blessing to fire. D'Artagnan was right, she exacted; it was absolutely necessary to use her leverage. And she knew he was thinking along the same lines that she was by the way he had addressed her. Looking from her husband to the captain, she began, "I don't think you realize what you're doing here." She took a shaky step forward for emphasis.

"Oh?" The captain's interest was raised. He amusedly moved closer to scan this, until then, quiet companion of the forward nobleman.

"No, you don't," d'Artagnan supported his male-clad associate's words, while keeping his hands in the air. Until she revealed herself to be a woman, it was his hope to take any attempted hostility toward her upon himself. At the same time, he wanted to protect her from the harassment she could receive once she told them she was a woman.

But his concern was unwarranted. The captain appeared obliged to play their game. "And may I ask, why not?" His piercing eyes paused on the soft looking Frenchman, taking note of the inconsistency of his appearance. Perceptively, he propositioned, "I suppose next you're going to tell me you're a French princess." He was dead serious at his inference to femininity, while sarcastic in his label.

With that, the entire group of unruly onlookers roared with laughter.

Flinching at the crew's response, Jacqueline tried to find her courage and replied, "No." It wasn't the deriding ridicule of these henchmen that made her feel intimidated; she had experienced her share of that from the Cardinal's men in the past. It was their confinement aboard a sea-bound vessel that pinched her nerves. The two reluctant passengers had nowhere to flee; thus, keeping the balance in their favor for the duration of this cruise, depended upon how well she could maintain her spurious connection with King Charles.

Gathering all the zeal she could muster, she asserted herself. "But, I do know your king personally." She emphasized her speech by stepping forward while letting her hair loose from her queue and hesitantly raising the other hand to point a finger at the captain. "And I don't think he'd be too thrilled with you if he heard you were responsible for harming the woman he proposed to." It was the half truth, she surmised as she stood there with her wavy hair accentuating her womanly features. She didn't have to tell them she had turned him down.

D'Artagnan himself raised an eyebrow at his wife's presentation, impressed at her courage and wondering where she would take her subterfuge.

The captain's face contorted with mixed amusement and disbelief—his eyes widening as though assimilating a new memory. "I'll give her this," he said, and looked about at his gaping men. "The woman's got spirit." Everyone laughed—even Jacqueline and d'Artagnan laughed along with them, albeit nervously.

Morgan approached d'Artagnan. "If King Charles proposed to her, then who does that make you?" he asked, raising a brow. While scrutinizing the nobleman's attire and affronting stance, he tried to make out the dupe's role in this scenario. "…Her handmaid?" he speculated, derisively.

Peals of laughter rose from the surrounding hands on deck at the captain's verbal abasement.

Unmoved by the ridicule, d'Artagnan flinted his face and replied, "Let's just say, I have a devoted interest to see that no harm comes to the lady." With a continued glint in his eyes, he held his self-assured ground before the captain.

Captain Morgan stepped in to position himself with casual dominance over the Frenchman and matched his glare. "You'd do well to remember that the next time you're tempted to speak up so freely," he sternly warned. Morgan's threat was aimed to validate to all that the pitiful show of theatrics by this self-acclaimed foreigner would not be tolerated on his ship. Conjointly, something unspoken held the captain off from taking drastic measures. He wasn't sure he wanted this man dead—at least not yet.

Turning his attention toward Jacqueline, Captain Morgan looked her over and lightened his mood. "I can't very well take you before His Majesty of England looking like a Joan of Arc now, can I? An English king wouldn't be very receptive of a likened lady warrior, would he?" A smiling captain stepped in closer toward the woman and lowered his gravelly taunt for her audience, while scanning his on-looking men. "And I don't have to remind you what happened to Lady Joan now, do I?"

Jacqueline's recent close call in Rouen with Mazarin's men was only too fresh on her mind for his arbitrary choice of words to ring hollow. Delivered in the privateer's grating voice, his mode of contention had the desired chilling effect on the masculine dressed woman. How she was beginning to regret 'borrowing' the port master's clothes she had on. Hesitantly, Jacqueline drew courage and seized the slander to her favor. "If you'd just let me change, I do have my dress in this bag," she suggested, lifting the tote she had slung over her shoulder for him to see.

The captain's curiosity roused again and he considered her request. Motioning for a crewman to check the bag, he stepped back and waited.

The sailor opened the sack and examined it. Scanning its contents with his eyes, he then reached in to withdraw a fan to display for the amusement of all. The grinning man received his due reward of laughter from the deck hands. Then, he gave his captain a blank look, as if to say, the bag contained exactly what the lady had said it would.

Jacqueline exhaled with relief that the sailor hadn't thoroughly looked through the fabric layers. Her pockets still held some of Siroc's inventions, which would have, no doubt, landed them in bigger trouble than they were in already. The fan, in fact, was the very one that the inventor had crafted a dagger blade into its handle cavity.

She slowly moved forward to reclaim her possessions while keeping an eye on the captain, careful not to provoke him. She reminded herself that if anything happened to them here, out on the open sea, no one would ever know what became of them. D'Artagnan and she had to make sure they reached dry land before taking any chances. Until then, they had to play it safe and stay alive.

"All right," said the captain in his salt-worn voice, nodding his head in approval. "Kidd!" he called aloud over his shoulder, all the while keeping his watchful eyes on the trouser-clad Frenchwoman.

A boy of about ten, who had been standing near the center mast, came timidly forward. "Sir!" squeaked his youthful voice.

Morgan beckoned impatiently, "Come here, lad." Then gesturing at Jacqueline, he commanded, "Show our lady guest down to my cabin so she can grace us with her feminine apparel." Morgan gave one last enlarged playful eye of her physique along with a smile before relinquishing her to his cabin boy.

Jacqueline shot d'Artagnan a reassuring look. She knew he was experiencing mental unease at the treatment his wife was receiving; yet, she hoped he kept it in mind that it would be best if no one perceived they were married. His wife languished for him, but understood that their training as Musketeers included rolling with the punches for the sake of the crown. Regardless of their present standing on Mazarin's account, they were loyal soldiers. Giving d'Artagnan one last nervous smile, she followed the boy below deck to the captain's cabin.

"How did you come to be on this ship at such a young age?" she asked, picking up conversation. In part, she talked to calm her nerves. Her last several days had been anything but restful, and now things seemed to be only worse. Besides, she knew she'd be worried about her husband until she was back at his side. At present, her standing before the captain was better than his, but she knew that wouldn't stop d'Artagnan from doing something rash if given the opportunity. And if he deemed it necessary to take action, their chances were always greater when they were together.

"I ain't got no family, if that's what you mean, Milady," the boy answered. "Me father died when I was but five."

"I'm sorry to hear that—" Jacqueline paused, affectedly. "My father died too," she finished, feeling compassion on this child. "What's your name?" Her attention conveniently refocused to this poor sea-waif who had been caught in the midst of circumstances just as much as she had.

In a heavy English accent he took satisfaction in his answer. "William. But mostly everyone calls me, Kidd. Most of 'em think they're jus' callin' me _a_ kid, but that's me real, giv'n name…with two 'd's," he blurted the final reflection with enthusiasm. Then looking past her port master's clothing to examine her feminine facial features, he added, "My mum taught me t' always take pride in that." Self-conscious of his mother's mention, he changed the subject. "You mind me ask'n your name, Milady?" His shifting eyes showed traces of innocence that had been called to mature beyond their years.

Mindful of his childlike curiosity, she couldn't help feel there was also somewhat of an awe in the way he looked at her. He eyed her as though she were almost a mythical creature. She wondered if that would be the side-effect of the boy having lived on a ship void of a woman's presence, with nothing but roughened sailors about to raise him.

"Jacqueline," she answered, thinking of all the names she had gone by lately. "But people call me a lot of things too, without realizing who I really am," she added. For that matter, she herself had recently wondered about her true identity and felt bothered that her own origin seemed mysteriously unknown. Arriving at the cabin, she smiled at the boy for his friendliness and hinted for him to leave so she could change.

When the enacting courtier emerged from the cabin transformed from the port master's clothing to her own, the boy's admiration was even more pronounced. Fumbling for words in her presence, he interjected, "Cap'n Morgan's on his way to England to marry his cousin, Lady Mary." Since he had no idea what would interest a woman, he spoke as though he carried important news that she would find noteworthy.

Jacqueline smiled at his divulged gossip and suggested that they return to the top deck. Possessing this knowledge gave her newfound confidence that even in these dire circumstances, God's divine intervention was at work on their behalf. Being that Morgan was about to take his own wife, he might treat her with more respect if he believed she was a potential bride for his king. With an uplifted heart, she filed this bit of news away for later use.

Leaving the stifling smells of the lower deck, they resurfaced to the salty, but fresh air of the open sea. The sight of the shapely, dress-clad woman on deck brought many eyes up from their assigned tasks, but none were foolish enough to risk negligence of duty on her behalf. All hands kept busy.

"I'll be leav'n ya to your escort, Milady," Kidd said, gesturing toward d'Artagnan. Then, bowing with unpracticed civility, he explained, "I've got me duties to tend." An awkward moment passed as if he had more to say, but he chose to keep it to himself and suddenly sped off.

"Yes, my escort," she replied to herself as the boy bolted off. She wondered how far she'd have to take this charade. But upon seeing d'Artagnan, her fears were momentarily alleviated.

Unhurt, relaxed and perched on a crate, he was preoccupied in chewing on a morsel he had somehow acquired. Although he sat unguarded, the ever-present swarming about of the deck hands was enough to remind him that he was severely outnumbered.

It was in this mode of assessment and in weighing their options of escape that she came alongside him. "So, what do you think our odds are?" she asked.

Biting into the sour rind of a lime, he savored his wife's feminine outline. Holding the citrus up to her face, he offered, "Want a bite?" while conveniently ignoring her question.

Distracted from her worries, she pulled back at the offensive sight. "Ew, no!" She made a face at the thought and sight of him stomaching such an acidic fruit by itself. "How can you eat that?" she asked, with a disgusted face.

Grinning at her reaction, with one leg casually propped up on the crate and the other dangling over the side, he shrugged and said, "It's not the best tasting, but once you get past its tartness, it's actually not that bad." He held it out to her again with a teasing smile.

Rolling her eyes at his childish behavior, she said, "I'm sure Ramon would have found it tempting." The impromptu thought of Ramon, made her wonder how their friends were doing and if they had made any headway in either clearing their name or exposing Cardinal Mazarin. Even though apart, she knew the brothers-in-arms would be working toward their common goal—to uncover Mazarin's evil plot and to fight for justice.

Glancing once more at the sight of d'Artagnan eating the repulsive lime, Jacqueline shuddered and leaned up against the crate next to him. Her eyes roamed to the captain, who was currently speaking to his first mate up on the helm deck. "What do you suppose they're discussing?" she asked, knowing that he had been studying their 'hosts' while she had been changing.

"It's hard to say, but judging by the harried looks on the sailors faces, and by the flurry of their activity, I'd guess that they're more concerned about getting caught with the cargo they've got here, than about what they're going to do with us." As he made his statement about the contraband, he slapped his hand down on the crate beneath him. Below where his hand rested, the stamped label revealed, 'French Naval supplies.'

"In fact, since the crew has been so engrossed, I didn't bother asking permission to snoop around for myself," he informed Jacqueline, with his quirky grin. Keeping his expression non-cluing for studying eyes, he added a quick interjection for her information. "Don't look now, but I've relocated our rapiers to the barrel behind me." Getting a nod of acknowledgement, he redirected the conversation with a wit of irony. "What a surprise to discover a horde of food provisions originally destined for the French Navy." Once more, he displayed the fruit before her with a piqued expression to illustrate his point. "All of which have been conveniently re-routed by our friendly servants of, Yours Truly."

In jimmying open only a few barrel lids, he not only had taken the liberty to conceal their rapiers more secretively, but he had discovered enough fresh citrus to ward off the vitamin deficiency of scurvy for the entire crew for months; thus, the source of his bitter lime he was eating. Aside from the foodstuffs, he could ascertain there were several crates containing ammunition and armament. King Louis' Navy would surely suffer for this robbery.

D'Artagnan knew this was the way of dominance on the sea between countries. He had heard his share of inside stories from his father and uncles. Unsure of how much his first-time sea voyaging wife knew of naval politics, he posed a question, "Are you familiar with the _lettres de marques_?" Without waiting for her answer, he went on to explain, "It works a lot like the _lettres de cachet_ that our own, beloved Cardinal used for our current arrest warrant. It's given to captains at sea and serves as an open order for certain…private parties, like Morgan, to seize foreign assets as a service to their crown. It's clearly an act of hostility. And I think we can safely assume that Captain Morgan possesses his English king's blessings in this enterprise." He eyed the man on the upper deck with distaste; yet, his enmity was aimed past him to the self-bent man on the English throne. "It seems to be a pattern of the royal Englishman to attempt _heists_ on French goods," he scoffed, reminiscing how the domineering man had almost made off with Jacqueline at one time.

Jacqueline was familiar enough with the _letters de cachet_ to understand that the _lettres de marque_ was probably a maritime variation of the same thing. But she was also aware that the problem with the _lettres_ was that it didn't always work under the condoning eyes of the crown. Appearing more like the soldier, Jacques, than Jacqueline, she argued, "I don't think King Charles would have willingly condoned the piracy of French goods. I mean, why would he want to jeopardize his relationship with France?" The deep lines in her brow showed her intense disagreement with d'Artagnan. "No doubt these privateers took action on their own initiative," she concluded, uneasily.

Wearing a marveled expression, he replied, "Why are you so reluctant to believe your English _friend_ may have given orders to heist these French goods? How could you even put it past the self-seeking, manipulative man?" It greatly annoyed him that she could still have a soft spot in her heart for the man who had lied to her before. Under the advice of Captain Duval, the Musketeer usually took care not to express his political bend, but this was his wife and he had personal reasons for disliking the man on the English throne.

"That's not being fair, and you know it," Jacqueline protested. Crossing her arms, she leaned heavily against the crate. "And I don't like the way you're accusing me of taking sides with him. All I'm saying is that we really don't know if he's aware of what's going on here or not." The tension in her face was obvious, and it hurt her feelings to know that he was still sore about her short-lived relationship with the former exile. After all, she had married d'Artagnan after turning down His Majesty; that should have spoken for itself on how she felt about the two men.

"But that doesn't give us an excuse to sit here and do nothing about it," he spoke bitterly between clenched teeth, clearly riled on either count—in the case of his wife or the goods he sat on. After all, Jacqueline and he were French and obligated to defend their country and crown. Keeping a distasteful eye on the steering deck, he addressed his spouse as a fellow Musketeer. "The question is: What can we do about it?" he hypothetically asked, while chucking the remains of his lime overboard.

ooooooo

D'Artagnan could not have been more right about maritime war incentives being behind the presence of French goods on the _Maiden Castle_. Yet, Jacqueline had also been right about Morgan's loose interpretation of the _letters de marque_. And at the time of the Musketeer's consideration, Captain Morgan and his first mate had been engaged in an embittered disagreement on the validity of that very point.

Taking his captain aside, First Officer Tucker, quietly, albeit arguably, spoke up, "Captain, if I may speak frankly. The king did not expressly condone France as a source of pillage."

Distractedly fingering the brass-plated telescope he had been frequently scanning the horizon with, the captain's irritation became visible at hearing his first mate's words. Avoiding visual contact, he curtly cocked his head in the man's direction. "He never said 'no' to French supplies, Tucker," Morgan's harsh rasping voice corrected, obviously unmoved by the challenge.

But Tucker kept at it. Holding his pressing poise, he articulated his speech in hushed tones. "We've been at sea for a fair amount of time, Sir. Relations could have changed. King Charles may be trying to forge an alliance with France for all we know. And if we show up with his prospective bride alongside a cargo hold of French loot ..."

"If! Mister Tucker, if!" The greatly annoyed captain impatiently cut off his officer's reproof. "All you've done is speculate. And I won't be making my command decisions based on speculation. Is that clear?" Dismissing their conversation, his glare turned to catch the eyes of his protégé. "Besides, what would you have me to do? Toss either the goods or the dame overboard?" Shoving the eyepiece at his first mate's chest, he concluded, "Now, I'm sure you have duties to tend to, Mister Tucker. And I assure you, I'll tend to mine." His face glowed red, with his wide, dark eyes ready to pierce anyone else who dared to question his actions."

Morgan was fully aware that King Charles II had not denoted the _lettres'_ application to France, or any other country in specific. He had merely implied that in preparation for England's impending war with the Netherlands, English privateers were being counted upon to provide the militia and Navy with supplies. Thus, Captain Morgan was using the document as his methodology of securing food and ammunition in service to his country.

And of course, Morgan was also aware that any wartime assistance to his country would be richly rewarded—such was the life and motivation for those willing to take the risks as he did. If his first mate did not see that now, surely he would when he was counting his precious pounds in London. Aside from his crew's monetary compensation, one of Captain Morgan's benefits included—as Jacqueline was now aware—the convenience of taking a wife. An advantageous marriage was every respectable sea captain's privilege, and this captain was more than content to oblige. In reaching England, the re-fitting of the _Maiden Castle_, pertinent marriage and his anticipated re-commissioning to the Caribbean Sea would mark the length of his stay. If all went as planned, events would tick off like clock-work.

ooooooo

But the clock was not ticking according to schedule. The _Maiden Castle_ had encountered a snag. While d'Artagnan and Jacqueline were still discussing what to do about the French contraband onboard, and Morgan was counting his reward, the sailors spotted a threat.

"Captain!" the watchman called. Bridging the distance between Morgan and him, he handed his scope over with urgency and pointed to the ship's aft.

Morgan took the lens and peered through it. "French." He spat. Turning to his first mate, he ordered quietly, "Appoint a guard to take our guests to the lower deck and place them in the cell." Making his statement, he accompanied it with finger point to clarify. "Don't lock it. If we have to abandon that deck, we don't want to be looking for the key." Turning to the confused couple who had noticed the commotion, he cordially called out in his roughened sea voice, "Tucker will see you to your accommodations for the duration of this scuffle. It's not the finery of Buckingham, Milady, but it should keep you alive." With that, all pleasantness left his countenance as he turned on his heel to bark out orders in preparation for the upcoming conflict.

Perceiving the issue at hand, d'Artagnan jumped off the crate to his feet. "Wait!" he yelled to raise Morgan's attention. "You're making a mistake if you plan to stop and fight that ship." The Musketeer had no idea which kind of vessel was in pursuit, but he was not about to be jailed below without first making an effort to put things right for France.

An angry-faced captain turned to rail back at him, "I don't have time for you, Frenchman." Then turning to his men he sneered, "Take 'em below."

As several seamen grabbed the prisoners by the arms to shove them toward the hold, d'Artagnan made one last attempt to gain the ear of the privateer. "It doesn't take a genius to know this entire operation is based upon the safe delivery of these goods to King Charles…am I right?" he appealed as he was being dragged away.

Turning to aim a stern finger at his resisting captive, Morgan reasserted his position. "Watch it Frenchman. Your life is worth very little here."

"Just hear me out—" his speech was interrupted by a blow to his temple, dished out by his escort. But d'Artagnan was determined to be heard and continued to plea his case as two more sailors came to the assistance of those dragging him below. Something in the way they were being escorted off the deck in such a hurry convinced him he was right about his hunch. Regaining his composure, he decided to play his bluff and called out, "You know you're no match for that _French_ ship…"

At this, the captain spun on his heels, raising his hand to halt the prisoner's leave from the deck. With his sight burning down on the emboldened man below, he wondered how he could have possibly known the pursuing ship was French.

The skilled Musketeer didn't wait for the befuddled Englishman to comment, but he plunged forward with his reasoning. "You're weighted down…possibly outgunned and outclassed. Yes, there's a chance you may come out on top in a confrontation, but how heavily damaged?" He paused, allowing time for his opposition to calculate the odds and visualize the outcome. Then, with the precision of an expert swordsman, he thrust his steeled speech between clenched teeth with penetrating coldness. "Then there's the risk that you'll lose it all. There won't be a single pound to be made on whatever's sitting on the bottom of the ocean."

Morgan twitched his upper lip, causing his long, curled moustache hairs to flicker. "Answer me." He tarried, and then asked, "How do you know so much? And who are you?" He too, considered he was being played by the nobleman. But with the recent spat between his first lieutenant and him, he suddenly had the gall to listen.

"Who I am doesn't matter at present. But what I have to say is true, and you know it is." D'Artagnan's face was taut with determination as he pulled against the firm grips of the men on either side of him. "Just listen to me. I know a way that you'll be able to shake the French vessel and make it to England, intact and still bearing enough cargo to earn you a hero's welcome and a handsome reward." The Musketeer spoke directly to the captain, but he knew the listening ears of this hired crew would also take into account the mention of compensation.

Suspect of the Frenchman's genuine concern for his profit, yet intrigued by his tactical understanding, he relaxed his stance and granted, "You have one minute to explain yourself."

"Let the French have their goods," he stated, shaking free from the hold of the hired ruffians. In declaring his plan, he knew he was opening a door for the French to find the hidden rapiers in the barrel. And with that discovery would accompany the knowledge of their whereabouts by those searching for them—both good and bad.

"No tricks," warned the captain, pointing sternly at d'Artagnan. "My first officer will put a bullet through that pretty Mademoiselle's head if you take one step out of line. Am I understood?"

Straightening his jacket, d'Artagnan served Morgan a cold reply, "Understood." He looked worriedly at Jacqueline, who nodded her head in reassurance that she was keenly aware and in agreement of his plan. Glancing sharply at the guardsman, he added, "No harm better come to her." Then he briskly began pointing out his instructions. "First, you'll need to fill these longboats with the French cargo. Lower them in view of the approaching vessel and set them adrift…"

D'Artagnan's proposition was interrupted by the boatswain, "But, Captain, we cain't set these longboats a sea! We need these boats, Sir."

Captain Morgan, without so much as an acknowledgement to his petty officer, commanded, "Do what he says. Load these longboats." He gave a surrendering glint to Tucker. Although he disagreed as to the reason, his first lieutenant had been correct—both bride and goods could not remain onboard.

"Blast!" he muttered under his breath, as he saw the longboats being lowered. Though disliking it, Morgan knew the Frenchman's tactics were sound. Without the foreign goods aboard, King Louis' Navy would have no justification to pursue their vessel. The English captain glared momentarily at his adversary. He wanted to know who this man was, but that would have to wait. The _Maiden Castle_ was in harm's way and his 'lady' came first. Looking around at his hesitant crew, he yelled, "Move it! I want this French cargo out of my sight. Now!" As an afterthought, he ordered his guards, "Bailey, Drew, take our voyagers below. We can manage without them loafing about." For now, the vexed man wanted everything French out of view.

D'Artagnan and Jacqueline shared one of their looks that spoke volumes, and on their own accord, they followed the two men to the lower deck. Both knew that if Captain Morgan had even suspected his two passengers were Musketeers, he would have handled things much differently. Once again, the mishap-stowaways accredited their civilian clothing to their favor for their role playing. A courtier and her aide would not be expected to take action surrounded by such odds. As long as they could maintain their cover, all they had to do was wait for an opportunity to present itself.


	14. Chapter 14

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 14**

**Pigeonholed**

_**Author's Note:** "Pigeonhole" is a term derived from the old roll-top desks that contained a series of pigeonholes where papers could be conveniently placed and easily forgotten. Thus, to "pigeonhole" a document would be to put it aside and purposefully forget it._

Martin Duval was a patient man; he considered it an inborn trait. As captain of the King's Royal Musketeers, his calm nature had lent greatly to doing his job. In a garrison of rough men ready to pull swords at the first sign of a skirmish, it benefited their leader to be level-headed. Yet, his present quandary tried even _his_ constitution.

Taxing his mind was the current state of affairs. It had been nearly a week since he had sent word to his friend, Charles d'Artagnan, of the grave news regarding his son and daughter-in-law's charges. He expected the Gascon to arrive from the south of France at any time. From the north, Duval had gathered wind of the Calais incident. Jacqueline and d'Artagnan had arrived there all right. But this morning the captain had received a private dispatch revealing they had never made it to the _Vestige_. They were missing, and the enacting liaison had nothing to offer his Paris-bound friend other than the consolation that his three famed comrades were, no doubt, doing all they could to recover his family. Distastefully being tied with his hands in the middle, the captain could do nothing but wait—wait, wonder and worry.

The deadlock that surrounded the wanted couple seemed to have even perplexed the king. When the arrest warrant had been brought to Louis' attention the morning after the d'Artagnans' flight from Paris, Duval recalled the look on the young king's face. The captain and Mazarin stood flanking the king, each in representation of opposite appeals—one for life and the other for death. His Majesty, still in his night robe, had turned a ghostly white upon hearing the charge. He made no sound, only pulled his robe tighter about himself as if a chill had seized his lanky frame, and without a word he abandoned the two men and withdrew from the room. Louis had reacted as though his own mother had just received that death warrant, and yet the king appeared powerless to stop it.

In stalling his decision, Louis had given Duval another week to come up with a viable defense before succumbing to the Cardinal's wishes—to execute the couple and disband the Royal Musketeers. That week had nearly expired.

With time pressing in on all concerned, the young royal had become more and more reclusive. The only company he condoned to keep was that of Marie Mancini. The captain believed his Sire's entanglement with the Cardinal's niece was clouding his duty. His Majesty appeared visibly torn, as though he fought an inward battle of influences. Duval suspected the manipulative parascientific work of Mazarin's man, Jean Baptiste Morin, to be at the heart of Louis' anguish; yet, he had no proof the work even existed or of its effect on Marie and ultimately Louis. Thus, he had no legal course of action to take.

His only option had been to spend day and night pouring over the _lettres_ and warrant, in hopes of finding a loophole releasing his Musketeers from incrimination. Yet, his efforts had been to no avail.

The captain wanted to bring his king relief, his soldiers life and France her freedom from Mazarin's yoke. He had tirelessly done everything within his power. Now, seated forward in his office chair, the battle-worn soldier held his cane lightly over his lap in one hand with a copy of the d'Artagnans' arrest warrant before him in the other. With his eyes closed, he silently prayed for them all.

It was in this mode of petitioning for heavenly intervention that Duval's logical-minded cadet knocked soundly on his office door and stood back to await an answer.

"What is it?" queried the commanding voice from the other side of the closed entry. "Can it wait?"

"Captain," the inquisitive man called through the solid wood, "If I might have a word with you." Imagining he could hear a deep sigh from the troubled man on the other side of the barrier, the calculating man placed his hand on the latch, anticipating permission to be granted.

"Come on in," resounded the captain's irritated surrender. Plagued in thought, yet not as a result of his intruding Musketeer, he permitted himself a break from his mental game of chess. Being rather harrowed over his missing and very much in trouble soldiers, at this point he was questioning his sanity for ever enlisting either d'Artagnan in his service—let alone both of them. He relaxed his taut face and reminded himself not to take it out on their comrade.

Siroc peeked his head around the edge of the door. "Sir, um, sorry for the disturbance," he apologetically stuttered for the intrusion. The scientist considered that his superior's melancholy mood called for a sensitive approach, much like one of his recent chemistry experiments—too much exposure at once and the room would be filled with smoke. Thus, the blond-haired man approached his volatile captain with care.

"Out with it," demanded the worry-ridden man with his eyes looming over the top of the d'Artagnans' warrant. "I can tell when you're up to mischief." Seeing that Siroc held something in his hands, he quipped, "Tell me, have you invented a contraption that turns time backwards to rescue your comrades from this folly?" Scoffing in his frustration, he leaned to the back of his chair and tossed the picture of the two missing Musketeers on his desktop, and then sighed.

Lightly smiling at the captain's uncanny remark, he timidly stepped into the office and shut the door. Glancing down at the object he nervously toyed with in his hand, he replied, "No, I haven't actually come up with anything quite that extraordinary, Sir." He moved his free hand momentarily over his mouth in thought, and then dropped it to gesture awkwardly at the item he held. "Ramon and I have been working with slingshots…of which this is a crude model, that I've modified for mass and distance..." He paused in hesitation. He knew how much his long-winded dissertations agonized his superior.

Looking down, he began tapping the wooden apparatus lightly against his free hand in contemplation of his upcoming speech. Clearing his throat, he continued. "But, I do have a plan that may present us an opportunity to see what's behind that armoire in the Cardinal's office." His eyes darted up to witness Duval's look of protest, before he sped on. "I know it's not exactly a solution to get Jacqueline and d'Artagnan out of hot water, but if we could only find proof of Mazarin's secret society…" Trailing off, he didn't have to explain what the implications of such a discovery would mean to his captain.

Frowning initially at the conversation's change in direction, the patient listener slowly warmed to the registering idea. Duval once again sat up straight in his chair, pursing his lips in thought. Then, gripping his cane squarely on his lap, he lifted his chin to study the object in his articulating soldier's hands. "You have my attention. Let's hear it. I haven't been able to come up with anything viable," he confessed.

Stepping forward, the inventor's voice became hushed. "A rumor's been circulating, Sir, that the palace has had…pigeon trouble." Siroc began his explanation, brow raised in intrigue.

"Pigeon trouble?" Duval's forehead lined at the fact that his scientist was making even less sense to him than before. Suddenly perceiving that his resident genius was about to launch into an animated presentation, the captain raised his hand to halt him from his rant. "Siroc, I have enough trying my thoughts. In plain words a tired mind can fathom, please keep it simple."

ooooooo

Taken below deck, Jacqueline and d'Artagnan were placed in a barred hold that was littered with crates and tightly packed containers of various sizes. Apparently, d'Artagnan had been right about the French heist not having been the _Maiden Castle's_ first. In fact, it had most likely been the last—the ship was bursting at the seams. And with the large quantity of stolen goods, Calais, no doubt being their final port before returning to England, every available nook and cranny was being utilized as cargo storage.

In addition, the cargo-laden environment was also crammed with conflicting aromas competing for the stale air. "I never should have had that lime," d'Artagnan said, having to breathe in deeply to ride out his sudden wave of queasiness. "It's a good thing you turned it down," he added, slumping down next to where Jacqueline had taken a seat, while holding his stomach. "Sea-sickness is always worse below deck." One strained look at his companion revealed that she had fared only slightly better for not having eaten recently.

Once the guard placed himself a short distance away in the entryway, the less scent-affected woman leaned close to her husband to offer a suggestion, "It won't take them long to load that cargo. If we could only get back above deck without being noticed, we might be able to sneak onto the longboat and be picked up by that French vessel."

D'Artagnan leaned back heavily against the hull and rested his head on the cool wooden wall that partitioned him from the sea. "Great, we'd be free from Charles and prisoners of Mazarin," he mocked, while clutching his stomach and closing his eyes. "That's a big improvement." He opened his eyes just a slit and rolled the back of his head along hull to face her, revealing his pathetic enthusiasm for her plan.

Her face flinching in annoyance at his lack of support, she looked away from him and jeered, "And you have a better idea, Monsieur d'Artagnan?" She couldn't believe he was giving in to defeat. Then, recalling Siroc's contrived weaponry still tucked away in her pockets, her worried look transformed to one of inspiration. Recalling a line he once used on her, she returned her gaze back to him and gleamed between narrowed eyes. Toughening her voice, she baited, "I thought doing nothing was for women and fights were for men?"

Raising his head off the hull at her challenge, he opened his eyes wide and protested, "You, Madame, are trying to rile me to do what you want." But a glimmer of life had returned to his appearance.

Seeing her slight gain, she pressed. "Please, d'Artagnan." She dropped her aloof demeanor and moved in to enfold her arms around his sword arm, gathering herself to his side. "I don't know why God allowed us to be here. I can't even say for sure that we made the right decision in not telling Morgan we're married. All I know is that we can't just stay down here and wait for opportunity to knock. We have to try something to get off this ship." Softening her look even more, she loosed one hand and gently brushed back a long dark strand of hair from his face. Encouragingly, she rallied, "Besides, I have confidence that Captain Duval and the others are doing everything on our behalf. They may have already convinced King Louis to drop the charges. And that ship in pursuit may be trying to retrieve us."

Jacqueline's optimism and faith were paramount among the things that made him love her. Unable to fend off her sensitive appeal, he conceded, "All right, let's see that arsenal Siroc rigged to accompany your dangerous feminine wit." His eyes glistened past her endearment and down her dress line to her pockets. Maneuvering himself into action, he couldn't help raising the corner of his mouth at the thought of how formidably irresistible his wife was to him.

ooooooo

D'Artagnan was not the only man finding himself carried away by the entrancing lure of an endeared woman. Louis could think of little else but his enchanting Marie Mancini. Finally consenting to discuss the finer points of the _lettres de cachet_ with Captain Duval and Siroc, a distracted king had joined his Musketeers in the grand room of the palace. His head was fuzzy, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on all the legal semantics.

King Louis' face scrunched in hearing Captain Duval's suggestion that he revoke Mazarin's application of the _lettres_ in the d'Artagnans' case. "No, no, no!" Louis adamantly shook his wig-curled head and raised his hand in dismissal of Duval's request. "The Cardinal's use of the _lettres_ was irresistible…I mean irreversible." Stuttering to recover his blunder, the young king turned his head away, eyes popping open wide as though he had just swallowed a bird whole. 'Irresistible?' he mouthed the word silently to himself, aghast at what had come out of his own mouth. He hoped his Musketeer Captain and assistant hadn't noticed his slip.

Before the king had to further cover his distraction, another diversion provided itself down the hall. All at once, the trio heard a commotion from the general direction of Cardinal Mazarin's office.

"God help us!" wailed a servant from the marbled corridor. "The palace is under attack!"

Three pairs of eyes raised immediately in alarm. Duval and Siroc instinctively stood to their feet, hands to hilts, ready to draw their rapiers. Louis tensed, unsure of what his response should be.

"Hold your tongue," blazed the familiar voice of France's Premier from somewhere beyond. "No such thing is happening." From the hallway connecting to his chambers, the man in red emerged like a disgruntled homeowner searching for the wayward child who had just knocked on his door and run. "Where is that pigeon trainer?" the ruffled man inquired of the baffled onlookers.

"Mazarin?" Louis shook his head in questioning wonderment, tossing his wigged-curls about. He looked intently at the inflamed man to explain himself.

Brushing shards of broken glass from his clothes, he calmly, but angrily expounded, "That is the second time in this past week his messenger pigeons have dive bombed into a palace window. If he can't keep his fouls in check, I want him hung." About to turn back, he halted to add, "And his birds roasted." He frowned and addressed the nearby servant shrinking from his reddened image, "And summon that glass smith to repair my office window!"

"But, Your Eminence," the servant made excuse, cowering with tilted head and fingers placed together in dread. "The glass man is currently fixing the chapel window from the last…er…bird incident and has asked not to be disturbed—" fidgeting, he chose his words carefully "—due to the delicate nature of repairing Saint John's broken image." Nervously, he made the sign of the cross at the mention of the blemished saint and hung his head before the speechless Cardinal.

Siroc fought off a grin at the Cardinal's stupefied reaction to the servant's denying request. Intuitively, the blond-haired man recognized Ramon's cue knocking in the form of a stray bird. He made a mental note to congratulate the Spanish marksman later. But before the reddened man's displaced ire was about to find a new target, the still battle ready Musketeer intervened. "Ahem," he cleared his throat. With keenly timed precision and an irony in his choice of words, he continued, "Your Eminence, it would be no trouble at all for me to see to your pane." With a look of generosity, he stood waiting for a response to his offer.

Overlooking the pun, Mazarin considered Siroc's appeasement. "Very well, the sooner the better. And if you wouldn't mind removing the foul, I'd appreciate it. I'll be waiting for you in my office." Turning to leave, he looked at his sleeve and knocked off a lingering piece of broken glass. He mumbled something that no one else could make out and walked off.

ooooooo

Jacqueline emptied the contents of her pockets onto the floor. Along with the fan, which

she replaced in the hidden fold of her dress, D'Artagnan recognized other familiar gadgets he had seen his inventor friend concoct for his wife's feminine approach to Musketeering. His eyes wandered over the items, suddenly stopping at the sight of a familiar looking vial. 'That's strange,' he wondered, suspiciously looking up to observe his unsuspecting wife, 'why would Siroc have given her love potion?'

He frowned, jaw dropping down slightly, as he recalled several occasions he had confessed to her that she could get through his defenses and make him agree to do just about anything. Was that why she had seemed so irresistible to him only a few moments ago? Extending his hand to pick up the vial while still watching her, he speculated if she had used it on him as retribution for him trying it on her once before. And would that make his dear friend, Siroc, her conspirator?

He was about to call her out on her charges when she noticed him holding the vial. Her eyes lit up in alarm as she saw what he was about to do. "No! Don't open that…"

But, it was too late. The wry-faced man had already twisted and pulled the cork off the top releasing the violent chemical reaction within the glass. To the shock of them both, billowing smoke gushed forth to fill their barred cell, causing them to cough and gag.

D'Artagnan dropped the glass to put distance between him and the choking fumes. Blindly noting that Jacqueline had managed to grab the unlocked hinged grid and pull it open, he began feeling his way toward the exit. By memory he made for the hold's passage to the stairway and fresh air.

Hearing the commotion, the stationed guard looked down from the base of the stairs to see his charge rushing toward him. Then, noticing the cloud mass enveloping them, he cupped his mouth and hollered to his fellow sailors above, "Fire in the hold!"

With blurry, watering eyes, d'Artagnan lunged wildly past his wife in the general direction of the guard's voice. Erupting from the prolific smoke, the gagging Musketeer plowed into the unsuspecting target. Both men went careening back against the ship's adjacent inner wall.

"Why, you!" cursed the sailor. Wiping a trickle of blood from his lip where he had bitten it upon impact, he raised to his feet. Growling, he grabbed the Frenchman's collar and began his retaliation.

Still hunched over and gasping for air, d'Artagnan was unprepared for his assailant. He had hoped the element of surprise would give him a few moments to catch his breath. But the opponent had the upper hand in recovering from the blow first.

"Bloody Frenchman!" the bristly man protested. He hurled his assaulter, back first, onto the stairs before laying into him with his fists.

D'Artagnan somehow managed to blindly throw a left punch where he speculated the pummeling man's head was. Landing his blow, he bought himself just enough time to roll sideways off the stairs and take refuge behind the slatted rise. Catching his breath, he looked up to see Jacqueline come from the haze-filled hold with a handkerchief over her nose and mouth. Approaching the recouping guard from behind, she tossed the content of a small canister at the man's face.

"Argh!" the sailor yelled, grasping his eyes in pain.

"Siroc said the powder's effects are only temporary," she blurted to her husband. "Quick, they're coming."

"Make for the longboat," he choked. "So much for being inconspicuous." Whatever their inventor friend had packed in that vial, it gave the illusion of a voracious fire. D'Artagnan checked himself for ever doubting his wife and friend's characters, thinking they could have conspired against him. That was definitely not a love potion. Ironically, he figured that he had received his payment in full for having ever used one on her in the first place.

Bolting up the steps, they were stopped short by two sailors heading down. "Davy Jones!" scowled the first man, bowling to a halt. The sight of the pair materializing from the haze had startled him into thinking he had seen spirits coming forth from the depths of the sea. His sudden balk made the second man plow into his back, sending the first only a breath's distance from d'Artagnan. Soon a third and fourth water bearer were to be seen descending with buckets. Growling at the wide-eyed Frenchman, the forefront sailor recovered his wits and grabbed the stalled man by the arm and instructed his back-sided companion to escort the woman topside with him.

The party of four ascended while sneering men with water buckets began forming along the opposite edge of the stairs to put out the alleged fire. The Musketeers knew it wouldn't take long for them to find the abandoned gadgets on the hold's floor and figure out that the source of the smoke had been one of subterfuge. Either way, their innocent cover was now blown and they had no choice but to attempt escape.

First Officer Tucker met them as they emerged from below. Standing with his hands clasped behind his back, he coldly stared them down. Motioning with his head to his subordinates, he instructed, "Take them to the aft and keep them out of trouble until Captain Morgan can deal with them." He suspected his captain's humor would be soured in regards to this couple after this little escapade. Their games were finished.

The guard in the lead roughly pushed his tolerating captive forward as Jacqueline was prodded along from behind. Just out of sight of the crew, d'Artagnan whirled around and laid into his antagonist with a fist to his face and a boot to his chest. Jacqueline seized the opportunity of her husband's diversion to pull a nearby hoist netting over her escort's head. Engulfing the shocked man, she twisted the off-keel sailor around into a deliberating tangle of mesh. Before he had a chance to call for help, she shoved the handkerchief in his mouth that she had recently used to cover her face from smoke inhalation.

She grabbed the guard's sword to aid d'Artagnan in subduing his opponent. Anxiously maneuvering for an angle on the man, she directed at her brawling spouse, "Just say when you want my help."

"That won't be necessary. I can handle him," he quipped before the Englishman struck his stomach, making him groan loudly.

Jacqueline cringed. "Now can I help?" she asked, still impatiently doing footwork on the deck while awaiting his consent. Her face contorted even more at watching her partner take yet another onslaught from the well-fed man. Deciding he had had enough, regardless of his approval, she moved in to assist by raising her blade to the sailor's face.

Looking up at the beckoning of Jacqueline's sword tip, the surprised seaman received a blow to his temple by d'Artagnan, relieving him of his duty. With eyes rolling back into his head, the Frenchman's aggravator fell to the deck with a thud.

Catching his breath while straightening his unkempt appearance, he informed his accomplice, "I told you I had him."

Recognizing the thug to be the very one serving him a head blow earlier that day, d'Artagnan couldn't resist the retort, "I believe we're even now." Shaking his hand out to alleviate the tingling from the impact, he gave the man a final shove with his boot to make sure he was out. Satisfied, he grabbed Jacqueline by her sword-free hand and pulled her along. "Come on, we have a boat to catch."

Coming up along the bulwark where their ride off the _Maiden Castle_ was tied, d'Artagnan made an abrupt veer to seek cover. There, between them and freedom was another sailor standing watch over the lowered longboat filled with French goods.

As a plan gelled in Jacqueline's mind, she wet her lips and silently signaled for her husband to go around from behind the man while she approached him from the front. Seeing him in position, she put on her feminine airs and casually waltzed up to the sailor as though she were taking an evening stroll.

Stupefied, the sentinel gawked and stammered, "Mi-Milady! What are you doing up here?"

Smiling with a shrug, she needed no comment, for just then d'Artagnan tapped the guard on the shoulder, causing him to turn around to receive a fist to his jaw. Pushing him roguishly against the bulwark to put him into a further daze, the Musketeer then grabbed the tottering man and lowered him to the deck. Eagerly leaning over the side of the ship, the escapee verified that their transport and country's goods were indeed ready to cast off.

Contriving a descent on the vertically strung ropes adjoined to the vessel, they were interrupted by approaching voices. D'Artagnan looked back over his shoulder, and then at Jacqueline. "There's not enough time for both us and the goods to make it. If we try to leave, they'll have us _and_ the supplies." Without flinching, he concluded, "You go and I'll hold them off until you're safe."

His wife's pain-filled eyes locked with his. She handed him the sword in her hand. Then, taking out her fan, she popped the blade open and began to cut the rigging that held the longboat. "There's no way I'm leaving without you, Monsieur d'Artagnan, so you better hurry and cut that other rope if you don't want to loose both our freedom and the supplies." Knowing she had made her mind up, her partner acknowledged her decision and cut ardently with his acquired blade on the secondary rope. Just when their capture was sure, the ropes gave way and the French cargo quickly receded from sight as the _Maiden Castle_ sped along on her evasive flight.

"Turn around, slowly," Captain Morgan's gravelly voice warned, "or I'll have Tucker put a bullet through one of your heads."

Being careful to keep his part of the bargain on his superior's threat, the first lieutenant maneuvered around the backside of the couple while keeping a keen eye on his charge. Smugly satisfied with himself, he added for his own appeasement, "I told the captain you two couldn't be trusted. It appears I was correct." Glancing over the side, he reported, "And the cargo is gone."

Spitting in his anger, Morgan gave a look of consideration on the circumstances.

The couple let go of their weaponry before the ire-faced captain could react. "You wouldn't have seen the galley anywhere around here, would you?" d'Artagnan tried to make light of their situation by the pretense of being lost. "Your room service is a bit lacking."

Upon hearing her husband's poorly timed comment, Jacqueline's head dropped and she exhaled deeply. She recognized her husband's cavalier attitude he often exhibited when knew he was beaten—the one that more often than not landed him in deeper trouble.

Good-humoredly, he placed his hands in the air for the second time that day before the English officer. Turning his head to smirk at Jacqueline standing beside him, everything suddenly swam around him and went blank.

Taking it upon himself, the unimpressed First Officer had effectively come up from behind to silence the jeering Frenchman by landing the butt of his pistol on the back of his head. As earlier that day, Tucker had not been amused with the nobleman's arrogance.

Jacqueline gasped in horror as she caught her husband's falling frame from plummeting over the bulwark and disappearing into the water. Gently pulling his unconscious body against her own, she lowered to her knees and sighed deeply in surrender.

Captain Morgan was furious over their attempted escape. It spoke to him that the loss of the _Maiden Castle_'s cargo was for naught. The king would be deprived of his supplies, and Morgan's crew had lost several months worth of rations and monetary compensation. He confronted the consoling female with a finger of warning. "You two will wait aboard while I visit the king first. If I find that His Majesty has no recollection of you, I'll personally see to your fate myself."

Morgan's threat penetrated Jacqueline like the chill in the channel's air. From her squatted position, she held d'Artagnan closely and thought once again of the French cargo slipping off on the horizon. Relinquishing that their rapiers hidden in the container would have to be the only affect of theirs to make it back to France, she prayed they would sail into the right hands. Apparently, God had answered their knock on destiny's door with a resounding 'no'. Her husband and she were stuck on the England bound ship after all.

ooooooo

Siroc knocked soundly on Cardinal Mazarin's office door and stood back to await an answer from the other side. Gathered in his free hand was his leather bag containing assorted glass etchers, balled metal taps and pliers for the job of sizing the pane. Along with the additional finishing items for the job, he tossed in several unrelated tools for his self-assigned task. When the Cardinal wasn't watching, he was determined to be on the look out for a lever or mechanism suitable for displacing the large ornate armoire from against the drafty side wall.

Frowning at not receiving a response, Siroc rapped his knuckles on the door yet again. Still, he received no answer. Having anticipated the repair job, the Musketeer had prearranged his tool kit; thus, cutting the time it took for him to return to the minimal. Perhaps the Cardinal had not expected him so soon. Taking advantage of there being no one there to respond, Siroc looked over either shoulder to make sure no one was watching, and then took out his familiar slender bone pick and had the door unlocked in no time. Before entering, he saw a guard approaching, and backed off innocently from the door. Improvising a cover for himself, he ventured a conversation with the red-coated man. "Excuse me. I'm here to fix Cardinal Mazarin's broken window. There's no answer to my knock. Do you think he'd mind if I went in?" He explained as he pointed toward the sealed office.

"Ah…" the blank faced guard pondered for a reply. He had only been passing by at the time, but raising a speculative brow, he saw no reason to expedite the situation. Hesitantly reaching to grasp the handle on Mazarin's door, he turned his wrist and pushed the door ajar. Peeking in to find the room vacant, he turned around to Siroc and announced, "It appears to be open." Swinging one side of the double doors wide, he stepped back and ushered the repairman in. "Go right ahead. I see no reason why you should wait for His Eminence to return before you start. In fact, he would most likely appreciate you not bothering him with the disruption while he's here." Leaving him to his work, the guard closed the door to keep the noise level in the adjoining hallway down.

As the door closed, Siroc donned a wide grin at his favorable turn of events. Eyeing every possible lever-like object in the room, the inventor's first stop was to retrieve the pigeon lying in the broken glass on the floor. He smiled at the ingeniousness of where he had recovered his foul for its last airborne mission. Knowing how averse his comrades were about harming a living creature, he promised Ramon he would find a willing participant among the deceased. The scientist had no qualms in working with dead matter. It only gave him a clearer understanding of life. Gingerly, he tucked the pigeon in a bag and made haste to finish his next preliminary task.

Siroc propped protective lenses on the bridge of his nose and made his way over to examine the broken glass. In a hurry to get the task done, he looked for a place to set his work bag down. Doing a double take at the secretary near the window, he attempted to push the wooden horse bust aside to allow him space to work. Unable to move the carved image, he frowned. "That's odd, this shouldn't be attached," he uttered aloud. His curious nature prompted him to attempt shifting the object about. And when he did, he felt the head jar sideways. Concurrently, a low rumbling vibration from his posterior loosed his attention from the horse bust. Turning to face the sound's source, he looked over the top of his work spectacles and whistled. "What do you know, there is a God," he muttered to himself with a quirky grin.

He didn't know just how much time he had before the Cardinal returned, but he had no intention of being there to find out. Quickly setting the pane with his agile fingers, he applied himself to the real business at hand—exploring Mazarin's secret chamber.

ooooooo

Cardinal Mazarin returned to his office after taking care of his other business. Finding his door unlocked, he frowned deeply. He always locked his door in his absence. Hesitantly he turned the latch and opened the door to peer inside. Walking in, he scanned the room for signs of visitation. Striding over to the arched window behind his desk, he looked down to see the broken glass still sprawled across the floor; yet, the pigeon was missing. He continued toward the window and placed his hand on the replaced pane and looked off in distant thought. Siroc had apparently been there, removed the foul and made the repair as promised. But he had done so in his absence.

Still in consideration of the implications before him, Cardinal Mazarin's pondering was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Turning to see Captain Duval making his way past his entry, he lifted his chin and called out, "Captain."

Duval stopped to gather himself at the familiarity of the disliked man's voice. Turning he put a pleasant expression on his face and answered, "Your Eminence."

Studying the Musketeer leader for clues of what may have transpired in his office, he chose his words to conceal his suspicion. "Apparently I owe Siroc a thank you." His presented false humility was accompanied by a teethed grin.

"Siroc?" answered the Musketeer Captain, casually. He continued on as though he had no idea of what the Premier referred to. Captain Duval felt his skin prick at the thought that his man could be on the inside of the Cardinal's secret alcove, since he had not reported back to him yet. The seasoned soldier eased his countenance in mock recollection of the pane replacement. "Oh, yes." Keeping his response low key, he graciously replied, "I take it he did a satisfactory job?" Duval smiled at the glaring Cardinal without betrayal.

"Yes. He did," replied the red capped man, relaxing his till then frozen stance. He looked full of suspicion; yet, without a shred to hang on. "He did." Nodding once more in pondering, he turned back to look out his window without further word to the man who stood outside his office door.

The Musketeer captain broke out in a nervous sweat. In truth, he didn't know whether Siroc had been captured or had disappeared entirely. Once again, all the inherently patient man could do was to wait and pray.


	15. Chapter 15

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 15**

**King Charles' II Chance**

King Charles II of England, Scotland and Wales, was an ambitious, young ruler living in precarious times. Restored to the throne after his exile in France, suddenly he found himself confronting an annoying war with the Netherlands. To the recently returned royal, his only intent was to squash those who would be a thorn in his flesh. Power was necessary for such things and power was to be leveraged in bridging alliances with wealthy nations and under the shroud of the rich and influential church. At present, England was declared Protestant, but if need be, he vowed he would change his religion. Ultimately, he would play whomever he saw fit to form the most beneficial allies. To him, it was all a game to acquire what one wanted, and he was a man who knew what brought him satisfaction.

When it came to the acquisition of anything that brought him pleasure, Charles was also a risk-taker. Although he was reputed as a generous and fun-loving king, in truth, it was merely the political glossing over of his immoral and dissolute court. England's new monarch masqueraded his indulgent behaviors behind his good deeds and political savvy. Pressing for revenue to back his sport, he pushed for colonial, maritime and commercial expansion. Tactfully, his debonair societies and scientific funding satiated the nobility to his cause. Thus, when he received word that Jacqueline had come to him, he vowed he would not squander his second chance to get what he wanted.

ooooooo

Disembarking the _Maiden Castle_, Captain Morgan had sent a message ahead to His Majesty, apprising him of his visitors. Intending to see the monarch first to discuss the pair of captives, he was surprised when he had received word back that the king wanted to see them without delay. This seemed to confirm, rather than contradict, the Frenchwoman's story. Consequentially congratulating himself for bringing the lady to London and leaving the supplies, Morgan dressed in his finest attire and insisted on personally escorting his prized stowaways before the male sovereign. Immediately the trio commenced to the palace on the premise that the figurehead of England had 'proposed' to the mademoiselle.

As relieved as the d'Artagnans were to be on dry land again, there was a certain dread in the air of what faced them at the mercy of Charles Stuart. They were genuinely surprised at how quickly he had agreed to see them. It was Jacqueline who voiced their shared sentiment, "Remind me, _if_ we live through this, that I never want to leave solid ground again once we get back home."

Not answering his wife's quip, d'Artagnan's thoughts trailed elsewhere. He had a bad feeling about where their predicament was leading when he saw the fortification of the Tower of London—the dual functioning royal residence and prison. Reluctantly, he had memorized his father's tales of his London visit. But his senior's visit had revolved around the residence of the Duke of Buckingham, not the king's Tower. The looming stone fortress before them held a bloody reputation, and it made the forced visitor apprehensive about the man who called this place 'home'. "I'm beginning to wonder if that prison cell back in France wasn't a better idea than this," he stated, sarcastically. His soldiering instincts took to the forefront of his senses; he avidly began studying the layout for weaknesses.

The d'Artagnans entered the opulent tower room where their old acquaintance awaited them. Charles stood with hands clasped behind his back, facing the wall opposite their entry. He offered a greeting to Jacqueline without as much as a glance. "Madame _d'Artagnan_," he said coolly. Then his haughty, lustrous personage turned to view her.

Captain Morgan turned his large-eyed gaze upon her as well; his stun at the contradictory title and name His Majesty attributed to her was apparent. His long moustache hairs twitched as though they released his pent-up electrical charge. She was not only a married woman, but it suddenly became evident that she was married to the young man who accompanied her. 'D'Artagnan!' The name sunk in.

It was a well-known name to the ship's captain. The French Musketeer's legends were favorites among even English seafaring vessels—although taking on a more villainous angle. All the previous day's events came back into play, clarified in light of the couple's identity. Evidently, there would be more tales borne by the famed man's namesakes. Morgan scorned to think that those stories would bear his name as well—to a less favorable degree. There was no other way to look at it; he had been had by d'Artagnans. Anger swelled behind his observant orbs, but he held his temper in check before his supreme commander.

Holding her own defensive air against Morgan's cannons, she raised a brow and shrugged. In actuality, she had never confirmed that she accepted the monarch's proposal.

When Morgan shifted his eyes toward the man next to her and scowled the famed name, _D'Artagnan_, the Frenchman merely raised a nonchalant corner or his mouth and shrugged his shoulders in like response as his wife.

King Charles II turned to Morgan in appeased amusement over gathering Jacqueline's playing the seaman for a dupe. "Never earn the scorn of a woman," he advised with sarcasm, "not this one, in particular." Then he dismissed the privateer. "I'll take it from here, Captain Morgan." And for the first time since their arrival, the sovereign could not suppress the smile that begged to surface from under his cool exterior.

At the request for him to leave, Morgan rescinded, "Your Majesty." He bowed with a tilt of his head and left the ruler to deal with this troublesome woman and her consort.

Returning his attention to the couple, the distinguished man's brows knit at the sight of his guest's condition. The tell-tale signs of a week's travel without proper grooming made them look like a couple of sea dogs. But the tactician chose to overlook their appearance for the time being, and quickly flinching, he relaxed his facial muscles to remove his outward repugnancy. At least one of them, he relented, held more worth than perhaps even they themselves realized—despite the state they were in. He would appease them for now.

The king's absorbing shock of their visage was obvious. "Apologies, Your Majesty," the ragged-looking nobleman offered, bowing with civility. "We haven't had time to wash before seeing you." As before, d'Artagnan approached the man with respect and caution. Although he was wary of the ruler, the man before him was a 'majesty' and the Viscompte knew his place.

The royally attired man opposite of the rumpled, apologetic traveler edged his response with laughter. "That's what I admire about you, Monsieur d'Artagnan. You have finesse, much like you father, I hear." Then looking at the woman by his side, he donned an affectionate smile. "And you are a courageous woman," he genuinely relayed. His eyes met hers in an overly warm manner that caused her to shift her gaze uncomfortably.

D'Artagnan's observant eyes darted back and forth between the two, noting the exchange. Protective jealousy instinctively swelled over him.

But before Charles' look could be marked as entirely inappropriate, he redirected his attention. "As I was saying, Madame—" he interjected a slighted nod of acknowledgment to the man standing next to her before adding "—d'Artagnan."

The married couple shot each other confused glances as Jacqueline bid a delayed greeting, "Your Majesty." Each Musketeer was deep in thought as she made her civil display. The way the monarch singled her out and avoided him immediately worried the husband. But both wondered how the man behind the calm exterior had known they were married.

Reading their surprised expressions, their host loftily explained, "England, under my rule, is a modern and forward country. News travels fast. I received word of your nuptials last fall…from Marseille." He maintained his placid, stately expression while taking in their reactions from the side of his half-lidded eyes.

The thought of King Charles knowing so much about their whereabouts troubled d'Artagnan. It was one thing for him to know they were married, yet even that seemed out of alignment for a powerful figurehead to be aware of a Viscompte and farm girl's wedding in France—even if she was a former love interest. But in his mention of Marseille, the powerful ruler relayed that he also had his informants well placed on foreign soil. What puzzled d'Artagnan was why this man who was way out of their league would go through all that trouble to get intelligence on Jacqueline and him? It was only one more concern to add to his list of reasons to keep an eye on this sneaky and powerful man.

Having diplomatically made it past their awkward introductions, Charles left behind his reserved demeanor and progressed to his next objective. His countenance suddenly warmed to one of the perfect host. With a smug grin, he boasted energetically, "Let me be the first to extend to you the olive branch." Springing into motion, he gestured with arms held open wide. "Welcome! Welcome to jolly England…and my home," he articulated with an upbeat aristocratic inflection. "Here, my servants will see to your comfort." He kept his actions cordial and gave the appearance of pampering to their needs; yet, his interest was explicitly tuned to the Frenchwoman. With a barely civil allowance to the man at her side, he impressively offered, "Allow me to put you up in a royal palace suite."

As the powerful figurehead walked past them to show the way, Jacqueline and d'Artagnan breathed out heavily. They were relieved that their old acquaintance had presented himself as pleased to see them. But the young husband also had reserved feelings; he noticed that there had been no congratulations on their marriage, only a brief acknowledgement.

The descendant of the house of Stuart returned his sight to his guests once they progressed through the doorway. Training his eyes on Jacqueline, he drank in her appearance with pleasure. Smiling, the regally clad man of wealth moved to her side as an escort and extended his arm to place it behind her waist.

Without a word, d'Artagnan smoothly moved in and intervened the over attentive man from further latching his tentacles onto his wife. The three continued down the corridor—with the protective spouse in the middle—and made their way toward the suite. In the Frenchman's opinion, their host was offering a little too much hospitality toward the woman he had married.

The ambitious ruler's eyes watched his charge contemptibly as he personally showed them to their royal apartment. "I trust you will be comfortable here," he said, with a little less warmth than before. He gave them both one final, expressionless examination, and then turned to leave. As the couple was about to relax after his departure, he faced them again with sudden recollection, and added, "Oh, and dinner today will be served in your honor. I trust my servants will see to it that you have something of exquisite taste to wear." He gave a brief, diplomatic smile and finished on an informative note before leaving. "And _English_ dinners are traditionally served at noon."

D'Artagnan's eyes narrowed as he watched the man disappear; he did not trust him. While in France, Charles II had promiscuously admitted to the Musketeer that Jacqueline would be 'two handfuls'. The nobleman had not liked the way the exiled man had referred to her so freely then, and he certainly did not like the way the man's eyes seemed to leisurely handle his wife now.

Having kept her thoughts to herself until then, Jacqueline finally spoke. "Well, what do you make of that?" she asked. "It's nice to see that he holds no ill feelings toward me. He must figure he owes me for sparing his life and for showing him hospitality in France." She smiled as the king walked out of sight.

D'Artagnan's expression became baffled at hearing her statement. 'Was she seeing the same play of events that he was?' he wondered, as he eyed his smiling partner who was still watching the receding host. 'Was she blind?' his face cringed at her obliviousness. Scoffing silently to himself, he begged to differ in judgment. He did not trust the man. The schemer was up to something…But what? D'Artagnan fought the urge to shake his wife from her delusion by saying something that he might regret later.

The displaced feeling Frenchman and husband considered that the head of England could pretty much do as he pleased. He was much more powerful now than he had been when they had seen him last overseas. The young married man's thoughts trailed. He considered it to be common knowledge that England was not a country where the sacredness of matrimony historically prevailed. All the covetous royal had to do was behead the spouse of the woman he wanted and lawfully she could be his. He put his hand to his throat and swallowed hard. It had crossed his mind before, but now, having seen the king's behavior toward Jacqueline, it outright vandalized him. No matter how he looked at it, he could not bring himself to believe this man genuinely cared about the concerns of the woman standing next to him. If she could not see that, d'Artagnan decided that he would have to be extra careful in protecting his wife from this now enthroned man.

The Musketeer was even less impressed with the Englishman on their second meeting. "I should have turned him over to Cromwell when I had the chance," he spoke under his breath as they entered their private suite and shut the door.

ooooooo

Calais port was a busy place on any given 'normal' day, but this morning there was more commotion than usual. A shipment of goods had just returned on a French vessel that claimed their foe had been so terrified of their pursuit, that they had simply abandoned their cargo and fled. Crowds of men swarmed about the crates and English longboat that bore the name _Maiden Castle_ on its side.

One spectator in particular was interested in their boastings. Cloaked in dark attire, the quiet one observed the crowds. Though not old, this man looked seasoned and intelligent in years. His countenance breathed of health and meticulous grooming. Neatly below his soft dark eyes he wore a solitary moustache line, and when acknowledged by a stranger, he courteously bowed and revealed his well-cared-for teeth. This was done without as much as a word before he walked off to another spot, being careful to keep his anonymity among the throngs of people. With purpose, he walked around the boxes, paying special attention to the ongoing stories. As he listened, a clamor arose from one of the inspectors.

"Now this is unusual," the uniformed man announced loudly, removing his hat to scratch his head. And the inspector replaced his brimmed headpiece to then pull out two rapiers from amid a barrel. "Look what I found in this crate marked 'food'," he quipped.

The dark, peaceful eyes of the onlooker widened at the discovery. Turning quietly away from the crowd, he crossed his arms and raised one gloved hand to pinch his earlobe out of habit as he processed the find. Two rapiers hidden amongst that crate could only mean one thing to him: The two he sought had been on that English vessel.

Placing his hands at his waist, he looked out toward the horizon at sea. Grasping what had to be done, he slowly nodded his head. He would inform the others and send word to Paris. The _Vestige_ would set sail for England. Perhaps, he grinned to himself in recollection; this time the three of them would make the journey only their fourth comrade had accomplished the first time out those many years ago. But that was decades past, and now their friend's son, not a sealed letter to deliver on behalf of royalty, compelled their campaign.

Stepping away from the rabble, he exclaimed with a frown, "Two d'Artagnans—" he paused to reflect "—no, three d'Artagnans to London before the others," he corrected. "We shall have to make it an even mark with the remaining trio then," he smirked to himself before walking off.

oooooooo

Author's Note: Had a bit of trouble posting this; thus, the reason it's almost a week late. Hope you're enjoying this story. Your thoughts in a review would be nice to hear.


	16. Chapter 16

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 16**

**The King's Delicacies**

The timing was rotten, but King Louis wasn't concerned about that. The dispute over the _lettres de cachet_ was still in bitter deadlock, and he had been avoiding it in hopes of it resolving itself in time. Looking in the mirror, France's number one man stood tall and pulled his dark jacket down on the corners over his cream britches and riding boots. Satisfied with his appearance, he put his face to the mirror and gave his teeth one last check for the proverbial speck that made one look like a fool on special occasions. Finding none, he nodded his approval and headed for the door. "Cardinal Mazarin and Captain Duval can manage their bickering without me for one day," he spoke convincingly to himself.

All he wanted was to get away from the tensions of the Paris politics and be alone with his Marie. Or, if all went as hoped on his planned, private escape, she would be _his_ Marie. He'd take care of the implications later with mother. He had no thought to her objection. As for the Cardinal, his intended interest was his niece, after all, how could he possibly deny him? The rule-bound novice wanted to do this without anyone else butting in; he wanted a little romance in asking the woman he loved to marry him.

After cracking his door wide enough to peek out into the hallway, the still teenaged king squinted his eyes to spy for any presences. Seeing no one, he stealthily stuck his lanky body out his royal bed chambers and slinked down the corridor.

Approaching the door of his beloved, he knocked softly and whispered, "Marie?" His eyes widened as he put his ear to the door to listen for a reply. Hearing the door unlatch, he stepped back and nervously checked one more time down either corridor before entering her chambers.

She too had on smart, but sporty clothing, appropriate for a day's romp in the country on horseback. Riding was no stranger to this versatile young lady. Besides, even if it were, Louis had gotten her to broaden her world even more since she had arrived in Paris. She would have gone anyways, just to be with him.

"Are you ready?" he eagerly asked, trying to keep his voice down.

Curtsying energetically, she playfully confirmed, "Ready, Your Majesty."

The two beamed at each other and broke out into stifled giggling at their mischievously clever plans for the day.

"Then, we're off!" The young escort encouraged his companion toward the door. And the two progressed to the palace kitchens where Louis had previously ordered their favorite delicacies for their romantic picnic—iced coffee, beignets, cheese, oysters, and red wine.

ooooooo

While Jacqueline was escorted by a handmaid to receive a thorough grooming and visit the palace dressmaker, d'Artagnan cleaned up and kept to himself in their suite. As promised, their accommodations were posh, decorated with the latest in furniture design and accessories. King Charles had provided for their stay in style. And all this made it even more uncomfortable for the young Viscompte, raising his guard toward their generous host. The fact that their room was not in the prison towers was a small consolation to the Frenchman; it still felt like an imprisonment. As he waited for his wife to return, he piddled about the room. All the while, his mind poured over possible escape scenarios, should it become necessary.

Nervously searching the contents of their room, he fidgeted with a strange box. Opening and closing it, he frowned and gave up his conjecture of its function. He was certain Siroc would have spent happy hours there in discovery of all the recent inventions and their uses. In truth, such luxuries bored d'Artagnan, and when he was bored, he looked for something to do.

Suddenly his thoughts were jolted by a soft knocking on the door. He jumped. His nerves were already frayed, and he needed little to set them off. Gathering himself, he neatened his coat, afforded to him by the illustrious king of England, and opened the door.

D'Artagnan froze like a startled deer at the sight that met him. A giftedly voluptuous woman stood outside the door wearing a smile and a very décolleté gown. The air about her permeated with a thick and sweet, tantalizing fragrance. Standing there in his doorway, his mouth hung agape and eyes opened wide. After his initial shock wore off, he apologized, "I'm sorry, Milady. You must have the wrong suite." And he moved to close the door.

But the woman's quick maneuver, placing one hand on the door and the other on his wrist, kept him from shutting her out. "You are the son of the infamous d'Artagnan, are you not?" she smoothly inquired as she pushed her way in.

"Yes, I am, but you apparently caught me at a disadvantage, since I do not know who you are." He smiled weakly and once again attempted to dismiss his caller with civility.

"But Monsieur, surely you have a reputation to uphold, like your father." She pressed up to him and placed her arms around his neck.

D'Artagnan, gently, but with great haste, pulled her arms down from his shoulders and backed her out into the hallway. Looking back and forth to see if there were any witnesses about, he offered one last word to his visitor. "Milady, you can tell whoever sent you that I am not for sale." With that he gave her one last look up and down, backed into his room and shut the door. On the inside of the room, he leaned heavily against the door with a deep sigh. "A few more minutes with her and Jacqueline would have slit my neck herself," he scolded himself as he shook off her intoxicating effect.

Once again, he heard a soft knock on the door. Standing upright in a start, he cleared his throat and pulled at his coat hem to gather himself to face the entry. Drawing in a breath, he contemplated yet another confrontation. Grabbing the handle, he opened the door and was about to launch into another refusal when he suddenly stopped. It was Jacqueline, not the strange woman, who pressed her way past him into their suite.

The Frenchwoman had undergone a complete transformation, clear from her hair down to her shoes and accessories. She rivaled Queen Anne in the wealth of what she wore. "What took you so long to come to the door?" she asked as she busily toyed with the gathering on her sleeves. Completely diverted by her stylish dress, she hadn't even given her husband as much as a glance. If she had, she would have seen the stunned look on his face.

All at once, she stopped and sniffed the air. "What's that smell?" she asked, scrunching her nose. Trailing it to her husband's person, she took a whiff of his coat and neck and finally looked up at his nervous face. "And why is it coming from you?" she inquired demandingly.

In his speechlessness over her appearance and question, d'Artagnan tried a few words of explanation unsuccessfully. "I…we…you…" He was flabbergasted by the events of the past few minutes. First, he was still shaking off the affect of the call girl who had left more than her scent all over him. Second, he was not only dazzled by his wife's beauty, he was shocked to see her behaving like a shop-girl of Paris—or in this case of London. Finally, he found his voice. "Let's just say I was sent a little gift from your old beau."

"My old beau? What's that supposed to mean?" She did not look happy at his inference. Besides being unhappy at him raising her past relationship with Charles, she looked confused. "He sent you perfume?"

"He sent me a lovely woman, _wearing perfume,_" d'Artagnan explained, emphasizing a corrected visual of how the scent had been delivered.

"A _lovely_ woman?" She tossed his sarcastic play on words back at him by emphasizing the type of woman he referred to. "And what do you mean by, 'He sent you one?'" She didn't look convinced at his explanation.

"King Charles II of England, Scotland and Wales, he just had a…" He began with confidence, but not finding the words, he gestured the outline of a curvy, womanly figure with his hands. "…woman…in a small, but cute—" he tilted his head as his brow went up with his added personal interjection "—dress on." Looking at his un-amused wife, he cringed with his last words, realizing his allowance for the description of his female visitor's small dress as being 'cute,' wasn't exactly chosen with the best care.

Jacqueline tapped her foot angrily and put an end to their emphasis game by stating, more than asking, "A _cute_…curvy…woman just left our suite?" Throwing her hands up in frustration she wailed, "D'Artagnan! How could you?" The fashionable woman's gown swirled as she turned to walk away from him, clearly upset now.

"Jacqueline, stop!" he pleaded. "I didn't let her in and nothing happened. Are you even listening to me? I said the king sent her to me to try to get me to stoop to his level. I'm a married man…a happily married man I might add." He followed her about the room trying to convince her of his sincerity. "Sweetheart, I would never compromise our relationship for a moment with a strange woman." He was silently thanking God that the woman hadn't spent a single minute longer in his presence. He had to admit, King Charles knew the game and he knew how to package the goods. But he had made one miscalculation in regard to d'Artagnan—he was a man in love with his wife.

The resolute husband walked over to his pouting wife and took her hands in his. "This is exactly what the king is trying to do. He's hoping we'll argue and be angry at one another. We can't let this happen. In fact, I say that from now on, as long as we're here in England, neither of us will go anywhere without the other. We stick together." He brushed her fashionably stray strand of hair aside and looked at how lovely she was. His hand ran down to her neck where he noticed she still wore her cross necklace. As stunning as she looked, he was thankful there were some things about her that would never change. Smiling, he cupped her soft face in his hands and said, "Did I tell you today how beautiful you are?" He was about to kiss her when yet another knock was heard at their door.

Sighing heavily, he surrendered their kiss. "I'll get that," he whispered, unhappy for yet another interruption. Seeing his wife equally disappointed, he begrudgingly let her delicate features go and went to see who had come this time. Swinging the door wide open, he was met by a stuffy mannered male servant in a pompous costume.

With a nod of his head, the white-gloved servant addressed them both. "Monsieur, Madame, dinner is to be served in the dining room. I've been sent to show you the way."

ooooooo

Following their guide, d'Artagnan pulled at the tightness of his royally-stiff-at-the-neck collar and swallowed hard. He still felt antsy over the king's attempt to put a wedge between Jacqueline and him. That, and his earlier thought of potentially being beheaded, gave him a lump in his throat that only amplified the discomfort of the borrowed finery he had on.

If the young husband had any previous doubt that the monarch wanted to get rid of him, it was gone by now. He definitely had tried to buy him off. No doubt the well-informed ruler had heard rumors of his womanizing father and perhaps of his own prior flirtatious reputation. But the bettor had played him wrongly. One thing the royal had not accounted for was that he was not his father. There was only one woman worthy enough to successfully make her way through his defenses. He smiled at the thought and relaxed. Surely by now the charlatan had received word of his failure.

D'Artagnan and Jacqueline joined Charles for their honorary dinner set for royalty. Both had witnessed such fare in Paris at the palace, but never had been a guest of honor at such an event. If not in the company they were in, the experience would have topped their culinary encounters.

As it were, they were Musketeers and well trained not to fall prey to a king's delicacies. A soldier knew that to be tempted by the lavish offerings of an adversary would be equated to putting a knife to their throat. As hungry as they were, d'Artagnan especially kept it to heart that 'food was food' and that he was not to be impressed with its presentation. He reminded himself to keep his eyes on what he felt was the real fare at the royal highness' table—Jacqueline.

However, since the couple had not eaten a proper meal in days, they permitted themselves to reduce the culinary artwork to its rudimentary components of sustenance—vegetable, meat, bread and drink—of which they were more than willing to digest, regardless of its design. With their focus being on the nourishment, the evening meal progressed uneventfully.

Observing his ravenous guests finishing their final course, the satisfied host tossed his napkin nimbly on his plate and signaled for the clearing of the table. His servant efficiently catered to his whim, and then dutifully made his way around to refill their wine goblets. Having replenished, first, the king and Jacqueline's crystals, the white-gloved man proceeded to d'Artagnan's glass. Extending the bottle over the Frenchman, as chance would have it, the bottle slipped from his hand and fell onto the startled man's lap. From the corner of his eyes, Charles coolly witnessed the blood-red drink slosh up and down the front of his guest's white shirt.

The wine-bathed man reflexively grabbed the bottle from his lap and stood up, pushing his heavy chair back with a loud screech. In his forward bent stance, he placed the bottle on the table with one hand and pulled his cold, clinging shirt away from his body with the other. Beside him, the servant fervently came to his aid, apologizing and offering his towel to sop up the drink.

Jacqueline's attention turned toward her husband's mishap, shocked.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan," His Majesty appropriately exclaimed in astonishment. "Please accept my most sincere apologies for the awkwardness of the situation." Cuing another servant to come forth, he ordered in his native tongue, "Take a fresh shirt to the Viscount's room where he can change his clothes."

Understanding well enough what had been said, the inconvenienced noble suddenly looked up—mid-wiping his shirt with the first servant's towel—and froze. His eyes caught the calm, almost rehearsed expression on the orchestrator's face. The palatial servant's imposturous miscalculation had happened so fast that the Musketeer had no time to consider the implications until just then. He was being played. Lowering the towel firmly to the table, he suddenly lost his concern over his uncomfortable disposition, and to the surprise of the others, reclaimed his seat.

Amid the baffled onlookers, Charles voiced their thoughts, "Are you not going to change?"

Acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened, the soiled man donned his cavalier front and answered lightly, "Thank you for your gracious concern, Your Majesty, but, no. I'm fine."

Frowning at the unexpected response, the king gestured to his servant and pressed, "My man here…"

"No. Really, it's just a spot. I hardly notice it." And d'Artagnan sat there with a smug smile on his face, quite planted in his chair.

Jacqueline quietly watched the peculiar exchange, considering that the best response from her was none at all.

Pausing slightly at the turn of events, the facilitator proceeded with the new set of variables. "Very well, suit yourself," he responded smoothly, yet with a little pique in his voice. Then dismissing the servants, who seemed reluctant to leave their guest unattended to, King Charles shifted the conversation away from the saturated noble. "Apparently, it's your turn in exile," he smirked, sportingly, "and my turn to rescue you."

Without saying it outright, the well-informed royal had relayed that he knew the reason behind their presence in his kingdom. Once again, the couple noted how acutely interested the crowned head was of their personal affairs. They had hardly arrived in London themselves, let alone the fact that he already acquired news of their wanted status, and it signaled grave reason for their concern.

The monarch's smiling gaze transfixed on the elegant female, and he allowed his eyes to take in her beauty. Her hair had been loosely gathered up to accentuate its natural waviness, exposing her rarely seen graceful neckline. Her gown brought out her feminine features and was made of the wealthiest fabrics: Cream based layers accented in gold cord with a plush purple bodice and matching purple accent delicately woven down the length of her gathered sleeves. Charles took pleasure in what he saw.

After an awkward pause of admiration, the corners of his mouth slowly dropped as he became acutely aware of the dark-haired man still in their presence. Dropping his head momentarily to collect his thoughts, his chin then raised to direct his next comment in the Frenchman's direction. "I was just going to relate a story, Viscompte. I assure you, you wouldn't have missed much." His cool stare ended with a locked glare at the male still seated at his table.

Clenching his teeth under his masked calm, d'Artagnan's heightened male perception burned with anger, and he fought to maintain his head. He sat forward, ignoring his saturated clothing, and put his furious energy into the façade of being extremely interested in the king's tale. "A story? Why there's nothing I'd like better than to hear a good story. I wouldn't think of missing it. What would it be about?"

"My story—" Charles informed, trying to regain control of the redirected situation "—begins with a mad woman."

Jacqueline frowned at the onset of His Majesty's strange choice of words and at the intensity of the masculine banter. It did not escape her notice that she was the one now being ignored. The verbal exchange had quickly become a boyish match of tug-o-war. At first, she inwardly rolled her eyes at the escalation of the male egos pulling on either side of her. But increasingly, she became concerned for her husband's safety at his growing insubordinate behavior toward the king. Frowning, she nervously picked up her drink. While swishing the wine in her crystal, she turned her back to the host and shot her spouse a visual jab in the ribs for him to back off.

Oblivious to his partner's appeal, d'Artagnan's fixed glare was on the man beyond her. He raised a brow in intrigue and smartly tugged back. "A mad woman?"

"Quite mad: As in dementia mad." The preeminent one's voice wrenched tautly, his face growing stern with his loss of patience.

The wine-soaked noble was certain his mishap had been intentional and that the deceptive man had wanted to be alone with his wife. Keeping his word previously agreed upon with Jacqueline—that they would not leave each other's company—he refused to abandon the woman he had vowed to protect.

At the provoking thought of the woman at his side, he finally noticed her begging expressions. His countenance relaxed as he took her advice to heart, released his tension and sat back in his chair. Looking at his beautiful wife sitting next to him, he reminded himself that before God, they were one flesh. And he knew her well enough to know that he had nothing to be jealous of with this man. His reassuring eyes relayed to his anxious partner that he would take heed to her plea. They would work through this together as a team, and at present, she was right. This powerful figurehead was calling the shots and he would get nowhere by challenging that authority single-handedly.

With the coyness practically patented as a d'Artagnan trait, he outwardly smiled while covertly giving the invisible rope one last verbal jerk before letting it go. "This should prove to be a most fitting cock-and-bull story," he quipped.

At his unexpected retort, his freshly calmed wife choked on her drink. Quickly placing her stemware down on the table, she gathered her napkin to mockingly daub her down-turned lips.

Charles laughed good-humoredly, much to Jacqueline's wide-eyed relief. Then, with the corners of his mouth dropping slightly, the king proceeded on in good sport. "Ah, d'Artagnan…As I was saying, this woman…" And over the course of the next half an hour, he wove his narrative of a Frenchwoman that came to be his assistant's wife some twenty years ago.

_Being a mid-wife in France, this woman had been called upon one night by a priest and one of the King's Royal Musketeers to render her services. As the three neared their destination, the woman became alarmed of their intended boudoir. Her reason for concern rested in that she had not by general account served those of such high standing. She knew, as a rule, that there were privileged servants for such honors. Sensing her apprehension, the fearful woman was assured by the Musketeer that she would be duly compensated for her assistance, and was told not to worry herself._

_But her caution was confirmed when after assisting in the delivery of the precious child, the mother became distraught at the revelation that she had given birth to a girl. Fearing her husband's adamant threat to terminate the life of any other than a male heir, she acted to preserve her daughter. The mid-wife, along with the two others, was sworn to secrecy by the frantic parent on the birth and concealment of her infant._

D'Artagnan was getting impatient. To this point, he believed king's story had been nothing more than an elaborate joke. He could just hear the tag-line in his head, 'Have you heard the one about the mad mid-wife, misguided Musketeer and the baby?' Looking very much like he had had enough of their host's senseless babbling, the sopped Frenchman interrupted, "Nice story, but is there a point to it? I mean, if it was kept such a secret, then how do you know about it?" Scoffing, he added, "Your story has more holes in it than my friend, Ramon's Swiss cheese." Standing up, the irritated critic prepared to dismiss their presence. "As for us, we've been graced with enough hospitality…"

"Wait, d'Artagnan—" reaching out her hand to quell her husband, she intervened "—I'd really like to hear the rest." Her eyes pleaded for him to be seated. Aside from noting his completely saturated discomfort, she knew he had no tolerance for people he considered to be fabricating stories and packaging them as true. She had been the brunt of that on the first day they had met when she patched together her alias. He had not believed her 'Jacques Leponte' story then, and he had been right. Now, she could see how her husband had arrived at that same conclusion with the king's tale.

Charles seemed to derive satisfaction from the presentation of his story as an elaborate fairy tale. But she knew the story-teller better than the man standing beside her did. She could sense the subtleties that he did not. Like when the exiled man had cloaked himself in an attempt to assassinate Cromwell outside the Musketeer garrison, it had been her keen awareness that had picked up on his intent. And this was one of those times her intuitiveness saw more to the telling than met the eye. Perceptively, it had been the bearer's mention of the priest that had raised Jacqueline's attention, and she was determined to see where he was going to take it.

Pleased that he had won the lady's audience, the king turned to address the subordinate with his cool, chiseled face. "Always playing the part of the valiant Musketeer, aren't you, d'Artagnan?" His flattering words were edged with ice.

The noble's patience had worn out; yet, Jacqueline's request was difficult to ignore. Once again putting his pride aside, he was about to reclaim his cushioned chair when a messenger concurrently appeared in the doorway. "Monsieur d'Artagnan," he pronounced, "an urgent message has just arrived for you from France."

The chivalrous man's eyes immediately came to rest on his wife. He knew she grasped what this letter could mean—word from Duval or his uncles, perhaps. "I'll be right out in the hall," he finally responded, both with reassurance to his spouse and warning to the king. In his current state of mind, staying in the room would only land him in serious trouble with the expedient man. He needed a few minutes to regroup his thoughts and the distraction of the pending letter would provide him with just that. With facial features taut, he confidently left the table to receive his correspondence.

Charles Stuart fixed his eyes on the doorway d'Artagnan exited through, and then he rose from his chair to make his way around the table to Jacqueline. Strolling with his hands clasped behind his back, he eagerly continued his story in quickened, hushed tones. "Coincidentally, the Musketeer in my story was also called away to duty at this point." The royal's facial features twitched at his stated parallel, but he kept on with his narrative. "And after his departure, panic gripped the priest and he altered their plans. Instead of caring for the child until the soldier returned—insisting they would be hung for their deed, should they be discovered—they left the infant with a family in the countryside. The priest then forced the mid-wife aboard a ship bound for England, and she assumed that her partner in crime had fled the country via another passage."

Caught up in his telling, the captivated female sat in her chair in suspense. With her head turned to the side, she listened to and looked up at the nearing story teller.

The relater stopped his stroll as he reached Jacqueline's side, but kept talking. "Arriving in England, she took to her profession and met a man your companion so dearly insists on calling, 'Clive', my assistant. They married, but that was not to be their happy end. Becoming wrought with guilt and remorse for her sin, her fits of dementia began. Speaking gibberish, her husband often listened to her ramble about that event that forever shadowed her life. Several years ago, she was put to rest as a result of her bouts. It's a sad story. But my story does not end with hers."

As he relayed his hasty telling, he glanced up toward the door to make sure they were alone, and then returned his eyes to his female guest. "My assistant buried the senseless rambles with his wife, and until in France, when I chanced upon you, her words resurfaced."

Charles' steadfast gaze met Jacqueline's before he continued with more feeling, "Wanting to know the identity of the woman that enchanted me, I asked my man to search for clues. When he came back with a poster, saying you were wanted for murder, it wasn't the crime that alarmed him the most, it was your name—Roget. For it had been the very name his poor deceased wife spoke of in her terrors."

Jacqueline's jaw dropped at hearing his emotionally debilitating words. She understood that she was the intended subject of his story—the baby. Stunned at the implications, she was unsure what to believe. Looking up at the monarch, towering above her, she voiced her questions, "Do you have proof of what you talk about, other than this woman's questionable words? And what are you exactly suggesting?" With furrowed brows, her heart quickened as she awaited his reply.

"Proof? Yes, proof," he smoothly spoke, stepping behind her where her eyes could not follow.

Unable to see where he was, she tensed. Facing the table, her anxious eyes flitted back and forth to her peripheral edges of vision to anticipate his next move. Her breathing deepened as she hung on every word of his luring voice.

"By word of the woman, proof of the child's lineage was left with her caretakers…" And as Charles quietly spoke, his hand reached over and skillfully unlatched the necklace around her neck.

Gasping at the suddenness of his maneuver, she grabbed for her slipping cross and gripped it to her chest. Her mouth hung open in shock at what he had just said and done, and at what it convincingly revealed about her past.

Noting her fear, he paused to display in his mannerism that his action was gentle and unthreatening, and instead, one of a more suggestive nature.

As the impact of his words wore off, the intent of his conduct sunk in. His softened touch on her neck shot alarm through her body. Barely breathing, she sat there immobilized.

Seeing her affectedness, he allowed his fingers to run their course down the side of her neckline.

Inhaling sharply at his persistence, she tensed and immediately hated him for making her feel so vulnerable.

He leaned over so she could feel the warmth of his breath. "Your cross, I believe it should have an engraving of a familiar crest on its back. Does it not?" he whispered in her ear. He smiled with the revelation of his secret and reveled at his second chance. "You were destined for more greatness than a Viscomptess. Stay here with me."

She could not believe what she was hearing; his words made chills run up and down her spine. She only half heard his final discourse. In the midst of his conflicting wanton overtures, what he had said was true. There was an etching on the back of her cross and it did match those she had seen before. But no one outside of her family had known that and the memory had been so long ago trivialized that even she had missed its message. Gripped in His Majesty's entrancing revelation, she felt paralyzed.

Then, as her brain thawed, the meaning of his last enticement took root. The familiarity of the only other man she had once allowed intimacy with screamed to be remembered. Without bidding, the memories came—the smoothness of his voice, the softness of his touch and the wine-filled kisses they shared. She felt sick. She wished she had never allowed herself to be so trusting of the man and permit herself to have crossed the line of intimacy with him. Suddenly, she was jolted from her caged nightmare by the sound of approaching footsteps that she recognized to be those of her husband.

Acutely aware of the Frenchman's return, the king released the gold chain to Jacqueline's trembling hand and slowly distanced himself from her.

Her husband! The thought rushed in like salvation. "I'm married!" she spoke vehemently under her breath to the serpent beside her. "And what God has joined together, no man shall separate." This man possessed nothing he could tempt her with. Pulling herself to her feet from the opposite side of her chair from the king, she stood to meet d'Artagnan.

The Frenchman returned to see the king relinquishing his stance over his quickly repelling wife. The look on Jacqueline's face while she stood holding her cross to her chest said it all. Her eyes frantically cried out for his rescue. He had never seen her look so in need for his help before. The zealous husband's face soured. Whatever had been said or done by the shameless ruler in his brief absence, he hated the man for it.

What could only have been later deemed as an intervention by God, another man in the company of a servant made hasty entry into the dining room and blurted with urgency, "Your Majesty, I regret the disruption, but there's a fire." The uninvited guest had a gauntly look on his face and his attire was soot covered. "It began on Pudding Lane in the house of your baker and rages untamed. It has engulfed a goodly portion of the town and continues to spread. Sire, it's as though the fires of hell have been unleashed on London."

Charles looked away from his guests, jostled to a reality more pressing than the one he recently tried to forge. His nostrils twitched at the faint smell of smoke wafting on the air, convincing him of the man's truth. His plans with his intended prize would have to wait. Perhaps she was married at the time, but that was only 'until death did them part,' he scoffed to himself. The king then addressed his guests and changed the course of the evening. "If you'll excuse me, I have a fire to quench."

D'Artagnan approached his wife from the opposite side where Charles had just been. He couldn't have been more thankful that God's timing had interrupted what surely would have turned ugly. Taking his visibly shaking wife lightly by her arm, he guided her departure from the room. "Jacqueline, let's go," he gently spoke, the firm love in his voice being like a beacon in her dimming world.

In complete numbness, the razed woman blindly let her husband lead her through the halls. Without him she would have wandered aimlessly. Her mind was lost in the mazes of King Charles' story.

When they had traveled a good portion of the distance to their room, d'Artagnan spoke lowly, jarring her from her trance. "What exactly happened back there?" he asked, deeply upset that he had left her even for a short time.

Her eyes betrayed something horrible, but she could barely speak. She could not find the words to tell him how the immoral pursuer had made her a defiling offer. Trying to begin with a more approachable subject, in disjointed sentences, she filled him in about the engraving on the backside of her cross. She told him that despite what it all seemed to speak of, she didn't know what to believe. With haunted eyes she stopped to face her husband. "What he suggests can't be true…but somehow I know that it is. What should I do?"

Listening to her, he made a decision. Sensing her loss of faculty, he would become her voice of reason.


	17. Chapter 17

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 17**

**Egressing the Darkness**

_**Author's Note:**__ Egressing means to come out or emerge from concealment. It also is an astronomy term referring to an emergence of a celestial body from an eclipse or occultation._

Once behind the closed doors of their tower suite, d'Artagnan sprung into motion. Not wasting any time in the gentle treatment of their surroundings, he purposefully flung the covers off their bed. Earlier that day he had concocted his plan in the event that their relations with the king soured. In the protective husband's judgment, their host's nauseating behavior had escalated way past the effect of the lime he had eaten on the Maiden Castle. His stomach pitched at the realization that he had not been the only one premeditating maneuvers.

If what the story-telling king had told Jacqueline was true or even if he believed it to be true, d'Artagnan saw why the royal figurehead ignored his presence and incessantly waited upon hers. The Viscompte ground his teeth at the thought that the immoral British bachelor saw his wife as his equal, while he was deemed merely a pawn in the game to obtain the prize. Much to his chagrin, the coveted prize was his wife, who he currently believed was not thinking clearly. If his perceptions were right, much would depend upon him in the next few minutes. With the bed now clear of its covers, he worked on removing its linen.

"What are you doing?" Jacqueline asked, suddenly aware of her husband's strange diversion. Her mind had obviously been elsewhere. If anything, she wanted to talk, and instead, she stood there uncomprehending why her husband was ransacking their room like a wild man.

Looking up to see the questioning in her stance, he granted her an explanation. "Remember Celeste La Rue—the woman who intended to poison me, had it not been for your intervention? I believe you inferred it to be something like _woman's intuition_." His gaze locked with hers briefly to confirm that she was following him. Holding their disassembled bed sheets up, he emphatically tugged the fabric down the center, causing it to rip loudly. "Well, you can call this _male_ intuition if you like. But whatever you call it, I'm telling you, your old flame, Charles Stuart, is up to something, and we're not going to be around for the surprise party."

Jacqueline's eyes and mouth opened wide. First, she was appalled at what d'Artagnan was doing to the royal palace linen. Second, she was even more incensed that he had referred to the king as her former flame. Third, she was just plain fed-up with his presumptuous behavior, which he conveniently called 'intuition.' Feeling her temper flare up, she clenched her fists and growled, "I admit that I have no fondness for his methods, but don't you think you're being a bit rash?"

Raising a brow at her pique, he delivered boorishly, "We're leaving…now!" The linen-ravager expected she might protest, but he knew if they did not leave immediately, his fate as well as hers would be sealed—his at the end of the executioner's blade and hers as the object of acquisition. He was convinced that stealing his bride was the royal's aim. As he saw it, there was no 'female' way of talking their way out of this, like he supposed Jacqueline might have preferred. The gravity of the situation called for action.

Previously inexplicable details came to light that made no sense to him back in France at the time when he had been rescued by Jacqueline and the exiled monarch from the Bastille. Alone with her that night in the cabin, lying beaten and bruised on the cot, it had been a definite low point in his life when she had asked him what he thought of her accepting Charles' marriage proposal. Inwardly, he had winced at the additional blows her words caused him. But being determined not to stand in her way of happiness, he had only cautioned her that royal marriages were rarely about love. He reasoned that they were about alliances and land acquisitions. The aching Musketeer wondered then what the royal heir had seen in her—not that d'Artagnan found her to be unworthy of such an honor. It was the Englishman's intentions he questioned. Now it dawned on him exactly what that something had been: Her suspected heritage had motivated Charles Stuart to ask her to marry him.

"Why now?" The exasperated woman held her hands up in bafflement. It was not like either of them to run at the first sight of threat. The king's offer to her had been inexcusably wrong, but he still held valid information she wanted. "What he said about my past matches everything we've discovered so far. Why would we want to leave when we're so close to having the answers to my questions?"

Still protecting Jacqueline from the whole truth of his unrealized fear, he deflected his answer, "Because I don't believe that he has any intent of being honest with the rest of it. He's using what he knows—if he knows anything at all—to manipulate us." D'Artagnan set the bedding down to face his undiscerning wife. "Don't you see it, Jacqueline? He _knew_ about us! He _knew_ we were married! How many other things does he know about us? That we have a price on our heads?" Scoffing in his frustration and unwilling to reveal anything further, he reminded himself that she was not the one he was upset with. The last thing he wanted to do at present was to build a wall between them. Realizing that that was exactly what was happening, _had been happening_ since their arrival, he inadvertently returned to his flurry of activity with a final declaration, "We can't stay here."

She didn't understand it; it wasn't like him to be frightened off by a lie or speculation. Beneath her breath she accused, "You're letting your male pride, not male intuition, make your decisions" Clenching her fists angrily at her side, she spewed, "What you're saying is that you don't believe what he's told me is true. That's arrogance! Rejecting the message because you despise the deliverer. You think that he's outright deceiving me!" She spat her words out in disgust.

"What? The lauded King Charles, deceive?" he mocked. "You said it, not me." Taking the shreds of fabric, he began tying them on end to form a rope.

She squirmed uncomfortably. A twinge of guilt waved over her for not being forthright with him about everything the monarch had proposed. But if her jealous husband was acting the way he was because he did not want to receive what Charles had said about her cross, there was absolutely no way he would deal with the rest of it. "I'm not so easily fooled as you think," she snarled. But with her words, the knowledge of Charles' intentions toward her could not be shut out. Her outrage at d'Artagnan slowly eroded back to confusion toward the king, and she did not want her partner to see her falling apart. In a flux of emotion, she crossed her arms and turned away so that she would not have to face him.

In returning his attention to his business, her uneasiness escaped him. He secured the linen rope to the armoire near the window and tested its strength before looking over to see her back turned toward him. "And why would he not lie to us?" he questioned. "He's done it before, hasn't he? Or do you suddenly feel His Majesty has grown a conscience?" D'Artagnan felt that if there had been any truth in the royal's story about her cross, they would not be able to sort it out from the lies. In the soldier's book, half-truths were only fabricated in order to shadow the lies—like Cardinal Mazarin's false image of being a holy man. No, if they wanted the whole truth, he was convinced that they were not going to get it from their host.

Jacqueline opened her mouth as if she wanted to reply, but not finding the ground to contest on, she fought back the imminent tears. Her husband had spoken more truth about the coyness of the monarch than she was willing to admit. Yet, the burden of her mysterious identity proved too great at the moment and she wanted to lay it at rest. Only half-way turned about to mask her tear-swollen eyes, she gestured begrudgingly at his rigged escape scheme. "Well, I'm not going to just walk out of here…or…climb out a window."

"Oh, yes you are," he stated as he fed his line of linen toward the opening.

At this point, Jacqueline could no longer hold her composure. Shutting him out, she firmed her crossed arms and planted herself near the stripped-down bed. "And you're going to make me?" she retorted, hurt knotting within.

Looking up to see her back stubbornly turned to him, he stalled his preparation to challenge, "Don't test me." His makeshift rope was nearly completed and he was beginning to panic about her unwillingness to go.

"I don't like your attitude, Monsieur d'Artagnan," she choked out as the tears began to flow. What had begun as a disagreement about their circumstances had quickly escalated to a personal battle of wills, which Jacqueline had trouble maintaining in the midst of her struggles. She could not believe this the man in the room with her was behaving like the very overbearing, male dominating pig that she vowed never to marry. "Give me one concrete reason why I should go out that window with you right now? Besides your male intuition, that is." She was deeply disturbed with him, confused about who she was, and she just wanted to wield a rapier and lash out at something—anything. Her head hurt with all the conflicts dueling for predominance in her mind.

Seeing that they were getting nowhere, fast, he decided to lay aside his task and tell her about the letter he had gotten after dinner. He explained why he believed the letter had been a fraud. It had revealed nothing that King Charles would not have received through his well-informed network of spies. There were no code words identifying any of those he trusted. In fact, the lengthy letter merely encouraged him to stay put in England until matters in France could be worked out. No, d'Artagnan rejected that those words were penned by anyone he knew. Angry at himself, he apologized to Jacqueline that he had not seen through the arrival of the correspondence to be Charles' ruse to be alone with her.

At his mention of her time alone with Charles, she felt her skin crawl. The recollection of what the man had said and done suddenly suppressed any lure she had for answers. She looked at her husband, knowing that he was right despite his crassness. And she knew she would have to tell him the truth, even though she was afraid of what his rash, chivalrous character might cause him to do; which, in his present state of mind, she wouldn't put it past him to take his entwined bed linen to the king's throat instead of scaling out the window with it. Sighing deeply, she bit her lip and turned toward him, deciding that he had the right to know, and filled in the details of her moments alone with the king.

Her honesty solicited a different response than the one she had anticipated. Instead of stomping after the king for revenge, d'Artagnan seemed relieved at her grasping the danger of the monarch's empty words. Taking her hands in his, he leveled with her about his fears of the Englishman's plans. With nothing remaining withheld between them, they were free to face their shared reality.

For a moment, he studied the uncertainness in her stance. Reminding himself of his promise to be her reasoning, he quietly motioned her toward the window. "Speaking of what's real, take a look outside for yourself. Half the city's on fire, Jacqueline." He could see that she was wrestling with her judgment, and he tried to encourage her to ground herself in her beliefs. Cradling her hands within his, he gently lifted them up between them and softly relayed, "Remember how we prayed before we got to the hot-water spring, and we asked God to lead our steps? Well, I think he couldn't have given us a clearer sign. God's timing's impeccable. It's obvious he's providing a cover for us to leave."

"It just doesn't make much sense to me," she responded weakly. "Why would God bring us all the way to England, and then turn us right back around again to leave as soon as we got here?" Her eyes met his, begging for reassurance.

He knew that she was dealing with an enormous blow to her identity and he wanted to reassure her of his certainty more than anything else. But the truth was, he wasn't sure and he wasn't going to lie to her. Lifting a single hand to wipe away her previously shed tears, he avowed, "I don't know, Jacqueline, but I can tell you that I've never been so concerned about you before. Look at you—" he tenderly faced her toward the mirror, standing behind her "—we may have only been here for less than a day, but you're not yourself, and honestly, it's frightening me."

The dolled-up Frenchwoman glanced in the mirror. A scared, lavishly adorned woman she did not know stared back at her. Even her cross necklace no longer looked the same. What was worse than the outward unfamiliarity was that she no longer knew the woman beneath the façade. D'Artagnan was right. She consented that in the few short hours they had been here, she had changed…correction, she was changing. Inside, she could feel it taking root. But while she now believed she was not the child she had thought she had been all those years, she also had no idea who the woman was that she was supposed to become.

Seeing her gaze blankly at her reflection, he enveloped her in his arms and restated his decision, "We're leaving, now. We're going back to France and we're going to have to get our answers there." With summoned optimism, he took her by the shoulders and brightened his tone. "It shouldn't prove difficult, now that we know where to go with our questions."

He left her side and quickly paced the distance to their stocked wardrobe. Her vacant stare followed him as he returned with two dark-colored cloaks in his hand. Approaching her in renewed flurry, he drew one of them around her back and placed it over her shoulders. He paused to search deeply into her eyes before scooping his free arm around her back. Pulling her to himself, he tenderly put his lips to hers.

His display of affection caught her off guard; yet, it had the effect on her of a summer sun on the spring snow. As her tension melted, she began to feel warm and alive. She could sense his fervency was fueled by a man in love and not one out for his own personal gain. Her only thought became how blessed she was to have him. Released to his embrace, she willfully returned his passion. Then, as unexpectedly as he had initiated their intimacy, he abruptly pulled back to leave her breathing heavily in his absence.

Resisting the path his mounting feelings led to, he retreated as though he were a man impaired by forceful separation. "We don't have time for that right now." Then deviously lifting a corner of his mouth, he added, "But if you're interested in more, you're going to have to come after it." Returning to the window ledge, he smiled and motioned for her to join him.

Shaking her head at his cad-like behavior, she released a deep breath and groaned, "You're impossible."

Straddling the sill, left leg out the window, he turned to look over his right shoulder and queried, "Coming?"

Surrendering her position, Jacqueline moved quickly toward the window ledge to sit facing him. Something that had been begging for her attention in the back of her mind since dinner that evening, suddenly made connection with synaptic clarity. Grabbing her husband's hand from taking the rope, she relayed with shock, "The note Louis gave me at my acquittal…it said, 'guard the secret at all cost.'" Her recently romanced countenance now wore the look of grave concern. "If Charles knows the secret, then…"

D'Artagnan locked sight with her and somberly finished her thought, "…then it's all the more reason for us to get word of that back to Louis, so England's new sovereign doesn't use it to blackmail him."

Ironically, strength returned to Jacqueline when she refocused on the larger, more important issues at hand than her own struggles. She was thunderstruck at how God could have orchestrated all their previous circumstances to work together for this greater purpose—to affect an entire nation's destiny. Their trip away from Siroc's crucial moment of discovery had not left them out of the hub of events—as diverted and useless Musketeers. They had been called on their own assignment by their heavenly king. And now, if they succeeded in getting word back to Louis, he would be spared the manipulation she had undergone at the whim of the English ruler. With each connected thought, she felt the life-blood return to her veins. She wasn't about to stop trusting God now; she was convinced more than ever that he knew what he was doing.

In awe of her recent revelation, her eyes followed her heaven-sent companion. Whispering, she said, "I hope you know that I love you, d'Artagnan." Even in his mulish behavior that evening, she could see now that he acted only upon his utmost concern for her and for France's king. He really was her 'noble d'Artagnan.' And in the midst of all her doubts, she had never felt so in love with this man than she did at present. He was nothing like the man who had violated her trust earlier that evening. She knew she would follow the devoted man before her anywhere; he had won her so completely.

With mutual understanding, a smile pleasantly broke out on his face. "Let's go," he responded. While the loyal husband firmly lowered his cloaked wife to the ledge below with his make-shift rope, he considered what he had ever done to deserve her love. Although it eluded him, there was one thing he did know: She did love him. And knowing that, he wasn't going to let the king of England or anyone else, use her to fulfill their lusts. If what the sovereign alleged was true—that she was the daughter of significant lineage—then the Musketeer husband had an even larger responsibility to France to see her returned safely. That would even take precedence over the duty he had to her as her husband, which alone would have been more than enough.

D'Artagnan had told Jacqueline before that royalty had only two interests—land acquisitions and alliances. In the young husband's book, this Englishman had had his share of chances to prove his character, and it was obvious now that King Charles II had cared no more for Jacqueline than he was capable of caring for a barmaid. He had previously used her and solidified that with proof when he had lied to her about his assassination attempt on Cromwell. Now, it was clear he intended to use her again to achieve political gain. The Frenchman had no doubt that the king of England was all about power and pleasure, and d'Artagnan determined that he would rather die before his wife would provide the unscrupulous English king with either.

ooooooo

Power, pleasure and politics seeped deep beneath the showy glitter of more than one royal residence. France, like England, had its darkened moorings. While Charles II slyly manifested his belligerence on the d'Artagnans, Louis XIV was steadily eclipsing into Cardinal Mazarin's clutches under the shady workings of Jean-Baptiste Morin. In this obscured hour, hope was a coveted watchword.

Underneath the framework of Louis' palace, one Musketeer pressed on to give hope its substance. Siroc wiped the sweat from his brow and placed his lantern down. He had wandered through tunnel after tunnel, and still there were more. To the wearied explorer, the mazes appeared endless.

Lowering his tired body to the cool stone, the beacon holder extrapolated the purpose of his surroundings. The sepulcher feeling of this place reminded him of a mass Jacqueline had talked him into attending some time back. Brother Antoine had read from the Holy Scriptures about the outwardly showy lives of arrogant men that clothed dead-man's bones within. That's what these air-bereaved catacombs spoke of to him in regards to who carried out their business here—living dead men who scoured these caverns like rats, eating out the life from the palace above. The thought was intriguing, but he reminded himself that theorizing on their indoctrination wasn't why he was here.

Mindful of the task at hand, Siroc reached into his workbag and pulled out another candle for his miniature hand-held, self-engineered dark lantern. Carefully lighting it, he removed the spent wax from the encasement and fitted its replacement. From the remnants of his ingenious optic device that aided in the discovery of the chameleon, he had constructed yet another nifty invention. The mirror fragments behind the candle directed a small, but focused beam of light to pass through a dioptric, refracting lens that amplified its path. In effect, only a dwarfed, long-burning candle was enough to light his way for an extended period of time. And with a flick of his finger, he could close the shutter and mask his presence if he heard someone approaching. With his lantern set, the man on a mission continued with his penetration of the palace infrastructure.

Siroc had been in Mazarin's opaque passageways for some time by now. During that time, he had quickly come to realize that these tunnels within the bowels of the palace had long preceded the Premier. They had been built into the stonework. Some older portions that he guessed had been constructed in the early part of the millennium evidenced signs of alteration. Even so, the self-studied archeologist deducted that the network had been long in place before Cardinal Richelieu's days.

But as every good scientist asked, Siroc also questioned, 'why?' The hypothesis that burned in his reasoning was that the vices of undermining powers had also been long in place and as deep-rooted as these caves. The implications of that history were mind-boggling even for the genius to fathom.

He knew that it was not uncouth for castles to have built-in escape routes and even a few short-cuts carved into their walls for the privileged. Siroc doubted the tunnels he was in currently served for either purpose. He would challenge the thought that King Louis even knew about their existence. Perhaps royalty in the past had been privy to their access, but the assessor pegged that Mazarin was the sole proctor over them now. They breathed of his stench.

Wandering through these silent walls, time took on a different dimension. To keep his mind alert, he speculated how long France had undergone these inward battles. How long had she been held captive by those undermining the very foundation of the enthroned rulers? These things the blond-haired man could not answer, but he was determined to get to the bottom of the Cardinal's deception and make him pay for at least his portion of this injustice.

Siroc knew he'd have to be careful. In seeing what he already had, he was a threat to the secret society's existence. He had to return safely to reveal his findings or the deception would go on for how many more countless generations. He had to stop it here and now. And the soldier knew he would have to be the man to do it.

He wondered. If he had he accepted the Cardinal's offer to work for him on the Da Vinci notebook inventions, would he have been welcomed to these catacombs instead of being a spy? Perhaps, he considered the paradox. The inventor shivered at the recollection how his services had been solicited by the dark man. Over a dainty dessert, the red-clad man had tempted the inventor with endless resources for the development of his discoveries. The Musketeer had not touched the cake; he had no taste for the Cardinal's sugar-coated deceptions.

Siroc attempted to refocus his thoughts to brighter, more pressing things—his friends. They depended on him to steer clear of capture and live long enough to complete his mission. He had to succeed in finding proof of Mazarin's wrong doing. Holding his dark lantern before him, he steeled himself against the darkness that surrounded him. Hopefully, he would discover a palace thief that was out for something much larger than a prize from India. If all went well, he would capture the man out to steal the throne of France and ruin the lives of those the inventor cared about most.

Concerned about his depleting candle supply, he told himself he would have to get moving. He, as well as France could not stay in this darkness indefinitely; he would have to press on to uncover Morin's work before the sun king slipped into the recesses of this nightmarish labyrinth.

ooooooo

The Queen-mother sat in her unlit chambers—alone—just as she had been since the news of the Cardinal's un-relentless quarrying of his prey. Would the devil never stop? Would her offspring never be safe from the evil schemes of His Eminence? In the wake of her present direness, her past came back to haunt her.

As a young queen, she had seen King Louis XIII slip under the demonic influences of Mazarin's predecessor, Cardinal Richelieu. Being a fledgling wife in a foreign land, she felt powerless to save her husband. With the mind of her spouse clouded, she feared what both puppeteer and his enslaved marionette would do with any children she would bear. So she invited her barrenness and avoided her husband's affections.

In the king's unfulfilled furry, he sought the arms of another. Eventually, the queen learned of his son born to the La Rue mistress and her fear turned from bearing an heir to not bearing one. Reluctantly, she submitted to her resentful husband who blamed her for his affair and for not giving him a child. Still bitter toward her, he threatened her, that if she did not give birth to a male, he would swiftly end the wench's life. Thus, the new mother, under the pretense of a miscarriage, had put her first born—her precious daughter—away, to spare her life.

Much had gone wrong in the course of that night, and in the end the child was lost. With her loyal Musketeer being called away to duty, and the priest and mid-wife having never reported back, the whereabouts of her infant became a mystery.

Bound under Anne's oath, the devoted soldier never brought it up again—until after Louis' coronation, when he paid her an unexpected visit in the night to tell her that he had found her daughter. On bent knee, he revealed his turmoil in learning that his son and the woman who carried the queen's cross had fallen deeply in love. Lathed in his own tears, he apologized for keeping the royal offspring's marriage to his son a secret. He swore he had only done so to shelter his queen from more pain and to avert laying a burden on the couple by unearthing a past they could not change. D'Artagnan alone insisted on full responsibility of fault and offered his disgrace and commission in exchange for a chance to save Jacqueline's life.

Anne was beyond shocked to discover that Jacqueline Roget-d'Artagnan was, in fact, her first born and that she had been taken in custody by Cardinal Mazarin. But she would not share her blame as she had foolishly done so in the first place. Deciding to face her fears instead of running from them, she insisted it her obligation to tell Louis and to ask him for help. In doing so, she held nothing back and exposed her sins to her newly crowned son, petitioning him to intercede. The king took heed of his mother's request—although struggling to reconcile her past error in his heart—and saved his blood sister from her fate.

Ecstatically relieved with the successful acquittal, the parent wanted so much to re-establish a connection with her child. She extended every invitation contrivable, but the mother kept her identity anonymous. Anne had full confidence that d'Artagnan's son would keep her daughter safe, just as his loyal father had done so for her. She was satisfied with knowing her girl was alive, safe and near enough to visit as often as excuse permitted.

But then, Mazarin reinitiated his un-ending bend on Jacqueline's destruction and Anne's nightmare began all over again. Only now, Louis was missing, along with the Premier's niece. The anguished parent withdrew to her private room and locked herself away. She consented to see no one. Her greatest fears had been realized. What had begun with Richelieu would continue with Mazarin; the souls of her children would belong to the Cardinal, as had her husband's. It was more than the heartbroken woman could bear.

In her state of despair, a knock came softly on her door, followed by Charles d'Artagnan's unannounced entry into her darkened chamber. He knew there had been no need to ask permission for an audience; she had been waiting for him. Jarred by the sound of the opening of the door, the detached mother looked up with tear rivulets etched on her face. The tiny brooks swelled into streams as she broke into unchecked sobs at the sight of her visitor.

Rising to her feet, she threw her arms around her loyal friend and cried, "Charles! Our children…What shall we do?" At last, she had someone at her side that she could share her troubles with. This man had stood by her from the start. He had been there to console her, to offer his fearless duty in carrying out her will, even when it was questionable. In this desperate hour, she was convinced that he was the only one who could offer her any hope.


	18. Chapter 18

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 18**

**France Bound**

Charles d'Artagnan rode hard alongside Ramon to the limits of the village of Versailles. Time was of essence for him to locate Louis and Marie, return them to the palace and then to press on to retrieve his own son and daughter-in-law. On the former, the Gascon's long-established connections among palace personnel had paid off. A favored baker informed him of an overheard conversation between the young lovebirds earlier that morning while they were claiming their beignets. The lead sent them in the direction of the king's densely wooded hunting grounds in Paris' neighboring countryside.

It did not take the riders long to locate the gallivanting couple. Just about every local the Musketeers stopped to question had heard the non-stop chattering of the duo happily making their way through the town's outskirts. Finally, a mercantilist with a loaded-down cart pointed the search team northward toward the red-brick structure on the king's property where the soldier's happened upon the pair.

Before Marie's arrival at the palace, Louis had progressively spent more and more of his time in Versailles for solace of mind and to escape the political bickering of Parisian aristocrats. The friendly setting made the young king feel at peace and in control of his destiny. It was the perfect backdrop for a joyous picnic and for posing the all-important question to his exciting, brown-eyed Italian beauty.

At present, Louis was mid-recital of Moliere's latest play that was performed at his coronation before an audience of one—Marie. The dark-curled youth sat on a picnic blanket absorbed in laughter at the performer's animated delivery. Due to the lack of available cast, the star had taken on multiple parts by merely changing his stance and voice. Currently, Louis' portrayal of d'Artagnan made the sight even more amusing to behold.

"Porthos! Then we shall take on the entire country of Spain!" Louis exclaimed boisterously, still in the pretense of the Musketeer and unaware of the newcomers. Momentarily dropping out of character to interject for Marie's enjoyment, he prattled on, "Oh, and I just love this part when the heroes raise their swords and hail—" and as the amateur actor energetically raised his imaginary sword, about to launch into his speech, a familiar voice piped up from behind.

"All for one and one for all," the authentic subject-at-hand dubbed his own line. Thrilled by His Majesty's compliment, yet pressed by fleeting time, he chanced the interruption.

The enactor abruptly spun about only to beam in delight at the smiling onlooker sitting in his saddle. Marie's laughter subsided and she turned her curious brown eyes toward her companion for explanation.

"Ah!" Louis became ecstatically giddy with the arrival of his distinguished guest. "The man himself! D'Artagnan!" He gestured an introduction of his prized friend to Marie, who had not had the privilege of his acquaintance until then. The overjoyed royal swelled in pride, reciprocating the introduction of his picnic companion to the Musketeer, "D'Artagnan, the Cardinal's niece, the charming Marie Mancini." Remembering his civility, Louis waved his hand trivially toward the second horseman and added, "And of course you know Ramon."

"Mademoiselle," both mounted men offered in unison. Ramon's greeting was accompanied with a slight frown at his downplayed importance, while d'Artagnan smiled graciously, yet without his usual pageantry of introduction. "If you'll pardon our intrusion, Milady, my comrade and I will not be staying," he yielded to Marie, before turning his attention to her escort.

The peculiarity of their happenstance meeting in the wilds of Versailles suddenly dawned on the young courtier. His countenance fell as he shot a worried look between his Musketeers and prodded, "What brings you here, d'Artagnan…Ramon? Has something gone wrong?"

"I believe your mother's worried sick about you," the distinguished man parentally relayed. His horse snickered as if adding his reproof.

"With due respect, Sire, this is no place for you to be, alone and unprotected." Ramon took the liberty of adding his concern to the horse's.

"Certainly my mother has more important things to do than worry about me," Louis' voice squeaked, unhappy about the summoning.

"Perhaps," d'Artagnan relayed, brow raised, "but it would be wise if you returned to the palace."

Annoyed and feeling much like a child being coddled into submission, the young king fidgeted with clenched fists. "No! I refuse! You can't make me go," he exclaimed stubbornly. After all, he was king and no one had the right to tell him what to do—not even his mother.

D'Artagnan's eyes danced briefly from the peeved royal, to an apprehensive Marie, and then off toward the furrow-faced rider at his side. Giving the situation a candid assessment, the seasoned arbitrator dismounted his horse to approach the irked youth. "Your Majesty, if I may have a word in private."

Maintaining his headstrong air toward the respected Musketeer, the young ruler consented uneasily with a nod of approval. "Walk with me," he said, gesturing a path along a thicket of wild barberries.

When they had treaded out of ear-shot, the mentor tactfully established a rapport with the nettled sovereign. "Word arrived at Musketeer Headquarters... Jacqueline and my son have been found." An observant glance showed the hoped for lowered front of the royal's countenance at the mention of names. The practiced tactician continued as though he had not noticed. "Ramon is here to escort you and Marie back to the palace while I attempt their recovery."

Louis frowned and continued to walk. The mention of Jacqueline immediately squelched his temper and resurfaced the hurt in its place. Accompanying his concern for her 'wanted' status was the reminder of his relations to her and what that made the man beside him. He had not seen the elder d'Artagnan since the acquittal. Anger and resentment suddenly filled his thoughts toward the tarnished hero for the part he had played in it. Initially, Louis had buried the truth, deceiving himself it would all go away if he ignored it. But with the mention of Jacqueline, it all came flooding back.

Stopping his gait, he turned and fumbled for words. "Why did she do it? My mother…I-I keep trying to picture it in my mind, but the images are too horrible. I can't imagine that my own flesh and blood would be capable of such atrocities…and against my own sister. How could she just send her away?" There, he had said it. The confession from his own mouth to another gave his ghosts substance.

"It's not my place to say," the Gascon gave a softened answer, feeling the youth's pain. "You'll have to ask your mother."

Louis let out a strained laugh at the gut-wrenching irony. "That's what I told Jacqueline when she asked me about the meaning behind her cross. I told her it wasn't my place to tell. Truthfully, I didn't know what to say. I don't even like thinking about it." He fidgeted in his agitation over the whole matter.

"She asked you?" d'Artagnan questioned, perplexed how she could have trailed her cross to the king.

"Yes," Louis answered, "I gave her a note after the acquittal warning her to guard the secret of her cross." He looked at the shocked soldier and hurled out his reasoning, "I was worried for her. I can't explain it. I mean, I didn't even know her…my own sister, and she was accused of murder." Louis frowned in disgust. "Ugh! I'm so confused. I know absolutely nothing about her, nor can I, because no one can ever know about her due to what my mother—"

"And if anyone did discover that truth," the loyal soldier infused heatedly, "they'd use it against you, knowing you'd care about what happened to her or at the very least be forced to cover for the throne of France." D'Artagnan had been standing right there after the acquittal and had seen Louis slip his son that note, but he had no idea of its contents. Knowing now gave him a new concern over the missing couple's safety.

Louis turned distastefully at d'Artagnan, still angered at his part in the whole matter and not quite seeing the connection the older man was currently making. He was too consumed with his own inner war. "And you were a part in it," he accused, sounding deeply wounded. Here he was, wanting to ask the famed warrior for help as he had been accustomed to. But how could he trust him now, knowing that he had aided in his sister's disappearance?

"Tell me, d'Artagnan," Louis' voice warbled and his forehead wrinkled, "a man like yourself, do you struggle with this?" In baffled self-reflection, he gestured his way through an onslaught of grievances. "I'm struggling with everything, lately: My mother, my mysterious sister, your part in that whole affair, politics, and my basic duty to right and wrong…it's like some power has robbed me of my ability to concentrate on anything but my out-of-control attraction to Marie." Louis shot an agitated glare at the astonished man and raised his finger pointedly before continuing his animated defense. "And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking it's 'young love,' but it _feels_ like it's more than that and it's terrifying me." His impassioned eyes met his mentor's, pleading for even a shred of counsel.

The legend's chin rose, looking full on the battle-worn king. Placing a firm hand on the royal's shoulder, he opened his mouth to speak, choosing his words with care. "Sire, you come from a strong line. There is no doubt in my mind that you will do what is right. You are no longer a boy; you are the king of France. Lead her with the integrity that's in your heart, and she will follow." With his final words, he took his gloved hand from the sovereign's frame and clasped it to his chest and bowed.

His words were few but poignant and his gesture even more profound. Instead of hearing a hero's advice, King Louis XIV had received a commendation. He looked the soldier in the eye, perceiving something about his nature that had never occurred to him before. Unlike Cardinal Mazarin who continually tried to usurp control, this Musketeer stood in loyal service to the crown. If Louis still did not comprehend why his mother had sent his sibling away, at least he understood why the man before him had carried out her orders. And in knowing that, he knew he could trust this man as his mother had.

"If I may be on my way, Your Majesty," the Musketeer broke the silence, kindly reminding Louis of why he came. Not stopping shy of his promise to Anne, he gently instructed, "Meanwhile, it would be wise if you returned to the palace with Ramon."

D'Artagnan's prompt spurred the king into motion. "No-I mean, yes, I'll return to the palace," he corrected. "But please, take Ramon with you," he sanctioned. "I want you to have his help. Bring them back, d'Artagnan. I'd like to meet my sister, properly." His grateful eyes rested on the man he now was related to, relaying that another successful campaign had been won by the legend.

"Shall we?" d'Artagnan grinned, victory acknowledged, and gestured the way.

Louis resigned in a sigh and nodded. He would return to Paris and he would do so without asking Marie for her hand in marriage. D'Artagnan was right, duty came first, and then desire.

"Let's go, Ramon. We have a job to do," the senior Musketeer ordered on approach.

Ramon turned to the experienced soldier and questioned, "El Capitán, 'we?' We both go to Calais? Will not one of us escort His Majesty back to Paris?"

"His Majesty knows the way home," the elder man promptly corrected his comrade while giving Louis a twinkle of his eye. While he understood his task to return the sovereign home, he also understood the young sire's need to feel un-pampered and his need for room to grow. "The less fuss made over his return, the better." Reading the young soldier's mind, he expounded, "The commoners aren't the ones who concern me. It's the Cardinal's Guard I'm trying to keep in the dark. With the locals aware of his presence, the secret order would be foolish to try anything in broad daylight." He looked at his doubt-riddled assistant and smiled, "They'll be fine."

Handing his pistol to the sharply dressed sixteen-year-old, he instructed with a grin, "Use this if anyone gives you trouble. We'll ask him questions later."

Louis awkwardly received the flintlock as though he had never used one before. "You don't think I'll actually need this, do you?" he squeaked, curiously examining the handsome piece of hardware.

"You never know, Your Majesty. It's always best to be prepared," the elder man replied, respecting the young king's emerging manhood. Then seeing Louis' clumsy handling of the firearm, he frowned and added a word of caution, "Be careful with that; it hasn't missed for me yet."

As Louis took heed of the warning and placed the pistol safely in the picnic basket, d'Artagnan looked off toward the northwest with a hardened face. "It's my son and his wife's safety I have good reason to be concerned about at present," he spoke distantly. Bowing his head in a final civil acknowledgement to the picnickers, he then signaled to the Spaniard at his side while concurrently ordering his horse into motion. "Yah!" And off he bolted, leaving Ramon to catch up. With their detour through Versailles accomplished, the two Musketeers pressed on for the port of Calais.

ooooooo

Having eaten from his rations and drunk from his flask, Siroc returned the dwindling stash to his pouch. The surveyor had come prepared. But until this point, nothing of specific interest had proven itself in the upper passageways, so the determined sleuth progressed downward. He knew the longer he stayed below the palace, the higher the probability that he would never leave the place alive. On the onset of his search, he avoided the possibility that he would find what he sought for in the lower, rat-infested sewers. But, he had run out of options; downward was all that was left.

As swiftly as the choice was made, he turned the corner to come upon the faint glow of a lit torch ahead. Feeling the hair rise on his neck, he knew he was getting close. Someone had been here recently and possibly still was nearby. He would have to proceed with extreme caution. Raising his dark lantern, he opened the cover and puffed the flame out. After allowing his eyes a few moments to adjust to the new source of light, he cautiously descended the passageway toward the growing sound of running water.

ooooooo

With hoards of people coagulating on London's streets, guards were more diverted with keeping unwanted refugees out of the king's residence than keeping anyone in. The escapists used d'Artagnan's make-shift rope to lower themselves to the terrace below. Drawing their cloaks over their heads to shield their identity, they held their breaths and dashed for the exit. In the confusion, Charles Stuart's coveted jewel and the man who had stolen her heart slipped past the sentries into the night.

Once past the guards, the relieved husband pulled his wife by the hand and made for the port. Linked together—more in an effort to keep them from separation than for his need to encourage her to move forward—they pressed a path through the directionless crowds. Several familiar faces busied about the Maiden Castle, making it necessary to skew their course. That was one ship they would not be sailing on again. The last thing they needed was to be recognized. Hand-in-hand they neared their destination. The sight that met them was shocking. Before them, the docks undulated with watercraft and the prices being haggled for passage were outright robbery.

"Wait here," d'Artagnan told Jacqueline, and he walked off to see what he could do about finding a ship bound for France.

While d'Artagnan pursued arrangements for their travel, Jacqueline took in the sight around her. The smell of smoke accompanied the voices of suffering. As rats, the impoverished and aristocratic alike swarmed out from the inner city. All attempted to reach safety at the water's edge of the Thames. London had borne its share in recent years—the violent overthrowing of her king and then her commonwealth, the _black death_ of plague and now, the burning of her homes and places of business. Would God's never-ending judgment ever relent?

"It's the new king, I say," Jacqueline heard a large, round woman gossip to her equally plump husband. As the pair waddled by the lavishly dressed Frenchwoman, the pomegranate-cheeked commoner spit at her angrily. "It's because of your likes that the rest o' us hasta suffer."

"Bite yer tongue, old woman." Her husband grabbed her arm and led her away. "If we hain't got enough troubles without yer gettin' us arrested by the rich."

Shocked at their reaction to her, Jacqueline watched the angry woman and her husband walk by. Oddly, compassion rose up for their plight; in truth, she felt more like them than they could ever know. "Rich?" she echoed. The last thing she could identify with was being rich. King Charles story alleged that she was born a princess, but perhaps it was just a fairytale. She knew nothing of what it was to be one. Clutching her arms across her chest, she suddenly felt out of place in her lavish clothing.

ooooooo

On the long ride to Calais, the painful memories resurfaced to scourge Charles d'Artagnan's thoughts with every pounding hoof-beat. He had looked for her to no avail. He had become a mad man in his search for her. He thought he would loose his mind. And when he returned empty-handed, she made him swear never to mention it to another living soul as long as he should live. While the queen lived in denial, he lived in guilt.

It had begun during the king and queen's estrangement years. D'Artagnan found himself growing close to the royal woman. At first, he did so to support her and protect her from her spouse's unwarranted hostility. On one such occasion he had even gone to London to recover her diamond necklace from the Duke of Buckingham, sparing her life.

After the king's affair with the La Rue Mistress, Anne confided with the Gascon of her fears if she were to remain barren. How it anguished him to encourage the woman he had endeared to seek the affections of another. But even in this, he kept his promise to do what was best for her over his own desires. Not wanting to jeopardize the honor of his king, queen or the Musketeers, d'Artagnan made the difficult choice to leave Paris. Anne did not receive the news well; she felt he abandoned her.

In the next few years, d'Artagnan tried to forget and poured himself into his soldiering. Many of his famed exploits occurred during this time, as he vented his jilted emotions in fearless, reckless living.

What he did not expect was that he would meet and fall in love with the woman who would bear him his son. If the legend had not been as devoted a husband as his criticizing son had accused him of, perhaps he was right. But the father accredited it to the losses he had withstood—first his beloved Constance Bonacieux to the deceptively vicious Milady de Winter, and then his dead-end affections to the queen that he could never have. He had not lied to his son that he had loved his mother, but what he hoped his son would never have to understand was the price he paid of giving too much of his heart away before he met her.

That was his personal hell that he had to live with—bringing the baggage of his previous relationships in tow. The father wanted better for his son. And when he had found that their children were deeply in love, he vowed he would not let the truth of Jacqueline's identity rob them of happiness and years as it had him. He kept the secret, until the night of the abduction.

"Anne," he had confronted her with heaviness, "she is the one." A long silence followed, as the queen only stared at him in confusion. She had lived in denial for so long that it was difficult to hear the truth again.

"You were wondering all those years where she had gone." He sighed and looked out the window of her suite into the darkness of night. "All this time, God had cared for her and returned her right under our noses." Looking back at her intense gaze, he continued. "Isn't it fitting that the next generation found what we could not?" By this time, his face betrayed the agony of their bitter-sweet circumstances. They had been in love, once, a life-time ago. But neither would speak of it and betray their king or calling. Their only recourse had been to remain friends and for him to watch over her.

He had returned to Paris during the time of her delivery. She pleaded with him to be there, just as she called for him time and again to come when she was in trouble. Her most recent episode had been with the thieving Duke who had stolen invaluable palace documents. And he had agreed to uphold her summons. How could he deny his queen? He still loved her, even though their time had passed.

But on that night he had lost the child, something within him died as the baby's mother poured her tears out on his grief-ridden shoulders. In some strange way, he felt her loss as though the child had been his own. He had failed his queen; he had failed Anne. It was then that he swore he would never fail her again. He promised to keep the secret to his grave. He only broke his sworn silence to save her from Mazarin's grasp. Duty to the infant he had once lost had called d'Artagnan to take that risk in her favorAnd now, as the night closed in around him and his Spanish comrade, the life of his own son and his duty to not lose Jacqueline yet again drove him forward like a man with a tormented soul.

ooooooo

Mayhem was about to explode at the docks at any moment. Seeing this, the younger d'Artagnan was all the more determined to get his wife out of England with haste. There was only one question that troubled him: What did they have to barter with? All they had were the rich fabrics on their backs. They possessed nothing else of value. As he pushed his way through the volatile crowd something of interest caught his attention.

"Paper! Paper!" yelled a young lad above the hubbub. Raised high above his head, which happened to be at the Musketeer's eye-level, he waved a publication of some sort.

"What is this?" d'Artagnan questioned the boy and grabbed the printed sheet from his hand. What caught his eye was the picture on the front—it was him.

Being no more than eight and only employed to sell—not to read his product—the lad had not made the connection between the querying man and the picture on the front of his publication. In his best salesman's voice the child answered, "The _London Gazette._" When his customer gave him a blank, unimpressed look, he moved closer as though he possessed a secret and whispered, "It's a newspaper."

"A newspaper?" d'Artagnan questioned, curiously. He poured over it in an attempt to decipher the words. Under his illustrated likeness it roughly translated, 'King Charles II aids France. Detained famed d'Artagnan's son in England's tower. Large reward for assistance.' Not able to read every detail, he could make out the subject of this news…paper well enough to tell that it wasn't good.

His eyes darted inconspicuously about him. It also meant that people might recognize him and want to associate themselves with the reward and fame of turning him in. Sighing at the disturbing development, he pulled the hood of his cloak taut on his head, lowered the paper and began to leave. His presence was putting Jacqueline in danger.

The boy took hold of his sleeve before he could walk away. "That'll be a ha' penny, sir." And he held out his hand.

The foreigner returned the _London Gazette_, ruffled the lad's hair and left. He didn't have a half penny or any money at all. How was he going to pay for their passage?

Setting his constitution full to the task, he approached a gristly, but non-threatening looking porter. "Sir, I'm seeking passage for two to France." He pointed toward Jacqueline, who was leaning on the railing in the distance and looking the other direction at the bewildered homeless people.

"Sorry, sir, the cap'n says we're full. Cain't take no more passengers. Shame, it tis." The tired man waved off the inquirer without even a look. Exhausted, he looked as if he had done a week's worth of duty in the past several hours. Whisky hung heavy on his breath as a sign of his personal way of dealing with the tragedy.

Not ready to give in so easily, the cloaked noble grabbed the porter by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. "I'm sure you have room for just one more" d'Artagnan pleaded. "Please, take my companion." His grip on the stunned man relaxed as he realized the level of desperation he had reached. His approach softened and his voice cracked as he begged, "I promise, if you'll just take her..."

The porter suddenly lit up, interrupting the groveling. "Well ain't it my lucky day?" When d'Artagnan's brow furrowed at the sudden change, the Londoner grunted, "Argh, you cain't fool me. I noes who you are."

"Who am I?" he asked, his expression inviting the worker to explain.

Pointing a ragged gloved hand at the dark-haired man's chest, the porter replied in a grating whisper, "You're the one in that journalist writt'n, the Gazelle…or something or other," he mumbled his uncertainty and then moved on with the facts he did have straight. "The son of that famous Frenchman. I ain't refined, but I cain read," he defended.

"Ah," the 'famed man's' son exclaimed, incredulously, "does everyone in London read that thing?" Sensing there was more to the porter's suggestion, he asked, "And what's it mean to you?"

With paralleled astonishment, the whisky filled man laughed hoarsely, "What's it mean to me? What's it to me?" he repeated, subsiding from his humor. "I'll tell you what it means to me." Leaning in close enough for the Frenchman to smell his breath, he informed in a sing-song tone, "Passage for the dame in exchange for my fame." Roaring heartily at the cleverness of his ditty, he only stopped when forced to by a phlegm-filled cough. Quieting the grating in his lungs, he proceeded, "Tell you what—" his face took on seriousness "—I let her go if you come with me quietly."

"Or?" d'Artagnan studied the despicable man through the side of his eyes in question.

"Or, I make a ruckus and attract that guard's attention over there… You'd ne'r get outta here alive." The bargaining man lifted one eye wide, waiting for a response.

D'Artagnan turned to see that the hustler told the truth. Standing a short distance away was one of the king's guards, looking through the crowd. Turning his back to the guard, the soldier refocused his attention on the man before him.

Figuring he had allowed enough time for the foreigner to weigh his pros and cons, he closed his offer, "…Come with me quietly, and I'll get a hero's fanfare, while your little lady sets sail. Am I clear?"

Having assessed the situation, he saw that his 'name' was the only valuable possession he had that would get her on that France-bound vessel. "Clear," the blackmailed man confirmed. "A deal is a deal," he resigned before laying out some additional terms to the swindling opportunist.

ooooooo

D'Artagnan quickly returned to Jacqueline's side before the porter could change his mind. The ship was due to leave at any moment, which suited the worried husband fine. The less time he had to act casual before his wife, the better. There was no good way of breaking the news to her; he decided not to tell her. She would know soon enough. Coming alongside the distant-eyed woman, his words invaded her pondering. "I made a deal with the porter," he broke his news and motioned her toward a ship berth.

Without questioning, she acknowledged him with a nod of her head and followed. Her mind was still on the old woman's words and how out of place she felt. The sooner she got out of England and got out of the lofty borrowed clothes, the better.

As the couple approached the grinning porter, he reminded d'Artagnan, "Now remember your words." Then the dock-worker walked off to push the crowds on the pier back. Raising his hands and voice, he announced, "No more room. The ship is full. Wait for the next of 'em to come t' port. Stand back."

"What was all that about?" Jacqueline asked.

"Never mind." d'Artagnan put on a weak smile. "Let's get you settled. I made a promise to the porter that I'd help him out." Finding a spot at the rear of the ship, he ushered her to sit down against the bulwark to keep out of the cold air. He kissed her warmly, and whispered, "You're beautiful. You know that?" He allowed his eyes to dance over her one last time in confirmation of his words. Then he stood up and put on his best front, before walking off.

Jacqueline had no thought that he did not intend to return. By the time she felt the ship move under her and stood to make her way past those hemmed into the aft section, it was too late. "D'Artagnan?" she called. Then again, more desperately, she yelled, "D'Artagnan!" Frantically, her eyes searched the deck, but he was nowhere to be found. Then, hearing a commotion arise at port, she saw the guards leading her husband away in cuffs.

"No!" she screamed, terrified. But the tired refugees about her only hushed her. They had their own troubles and didn't seem to care about hers. "No! D'Artagnan, no. Not this. Please, not this." Her plea fell on deaf ears; the ship continued to pull away from the dock.

Stunned, she couldn't breathe. Tears began to swell in her eyes as the vessel quickly made its way along the Thames. Straining to see through her moistened eyes, she caught her last glimpse of her husband disappear in the masses.

She felt ill. Recent events made her head swirl and her stomach tight. Chills ran untamed throughout her body. She fought in desperation for control. But her world was changing too fast, and d'Artagnan was not there—she was alone. He had sacrificed himself for her. She could see that had been his plan. Her eyes burned with tears. Sickness overwhelmed her. Clutching her stomach, she raced to the aft railing and relieved herself over the back of the ship.

Feeling the life ebb from her, she grabbed the rigging and lowered herself to her knees in misery. Tears freely streamed down her moistened face. Looking up to the now blackened sky, she pled, "Please, God—" her sobbing became uncontrollable and she sputtered convulsively "—let him be safe." Then, no longer having the will to fight the pain of her loss, she collapsed her head downward and continued her solitary whimpering, still clinging, white-knuckled to the rope as though she clung to her last hope.

ooooooo

Charles II, king of England, Scotland and Wales entered the room where the French Royal Musketeer had been taken in shackles. The room was not a common dungeon, but instead, a well-kept apartment for the detaining of noble prisoners in the famed Bloody Tower. England bragged itself civilized, and prided itself in keeping well-born prisoners in luxury. And now it housed its most recent prize, or ransom, Monsieur d'Artagnan.

A beaten and bound, yet nonchalant prisoner rolled his eyes and briefly looked off to the side at the sight of the entering royal. Returning his gaze forthright to the man named Charles, he sarcastically jested, "Your Majesty, what a surprise." He raised his chained hands in gesture of his predicament. "By some ill-conceived coincidence I keep finding myself bound in your attempt to win the same woman."

The formerly exiled English monarch grimaced at the soldier's reference to their previous dungeon encounter. Charles had permitted himself to be bound for the purpose of freeing this Frenchman. He had only complied to win the favor of Jacqueline. This time, the king sniffed back the still smoke-laden air in fiery thought, d'Artagnan would be the one used to free the woman from her entanglements.

In the king's silence, d'Artagnan confidently pressed, "Although, you'd think a man would get the message after two failures." His bantering attitude turned to one of angered resolve toward the contemptible man before him. "This time I assure you, _my wife_ is safely out of your reach."

His lunging emphasis on her being 'his wife' had its due effect. An annoyed King Charles skirted around the subject and dealt instead with his problem at hand. "I couldn't very well go down in the eyes of France, as the man who put to death the son of the legendary d'Artagnan, could I?" He paced, hands clasped behind his back, entertainingly around his shackled bait. He was fully aware of the news the _London Gazette_ had been circulating. He was responsible for it. "At least not yet," he mused. Then the king's expression became like stone as he stopped before the bruised man and claimed, "Not when I'm trying to forge an alliance with the throne of France."

Making sure he held eye contact with this despised man, the capturer moved in allowing his prisoner to feel his breath on his face, and threatened, "Make no mistake, d'Artagnan. I will have your head, but not until I've had your wife. After that, there will be no need for you." Charles backed off to leave, and then flippantly tossed the key for the cuffs on the floor before d'Artagnan to allow him the trouble of freeing himself. "Until then—" the king gestured around the room with a soured grin on his face "—I hope you enjoy your stay in…my tower."

He turned to leave, but suddenly spun about as if he had forgotten to mention, "Oh, and the expense is on me, for now. Usually, we have our distinguished guests pay for their own luxurious accommodations until their execution. But I'll consider Jacqueline as part of my payment." With this King Charles II reclaimed his cold demeanor, turned on his heel and left the prisoner.


	19. Chapter 19

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 19**

**All for One**

Sailing on seas of nothingness

Adrift on childhood dreams

Sword in hand, famed tales to lead

Heroine of destiny's themes

Cold ocean spray; truth's flay

Awakens me from my sleep

Sign of the Cross, d'Artagnan's loss

Bid me quit night's blissful keep

Jacqueline woke from a restless sleep to the chill of dawn. Huddled about her were dozens of motionless forms of sleeping, traumatized people. Those around her bore their private burdens due to fire. Her burdens were deep-rooted to her past and spanned into her questionable future that she'd now have to face without the man she loved.

She fingered the cold, metal crucifix about her neck, a reminder that her predicament was not imagined. If the clues of her past led to the royalty of France as they suggested, what sins had caused her to be placed in hiding? She recalled her brother, Gerard's words of the dying priest, 'His sins had caused him to flee. And Father Barsec had hoped that she, Jacqueline, would forgive him.'

A wave of pain flinched through her already tense features as she recalled her own crimes. Cardinal Mazarin's corrupt actions had certainly influenced her choices, but she alone bore the responsibility for her sins and for running from their consequences. The difference between her and the outwardly religious man was that she had responded to the conviction of God on her heart, confessed her wrongs and had turned from them; the evil-hearted Cardinal had his own agenda and would never admit to his crimes.

Thoughtfully, she felt the grooves of the Christ held in place to the transverse symbol of execution. One solitary person had sacrificed himself to take away the sin of the world and to offer forgiveness and life everlasting to anyone who would believe and receive his promise. God's invitation drew no social boundary; it had been extended to all no matter what their station in life—Cardinal or farm girl, queen or Musketeer. No matter how difficult it would be, she knew what she would have to do when she faced those who had taken part in her calamity. How could she do any less when her Savior had done so much for her?

Her thoughts trailed to another who had sacrificed for her. 'You have to be strong right now,' Jacqueline recalled d'Artagnan's words. He had told her that on the night they had fled from the garrison. She had been slipping into despair, feeling guilt over bringing condemnation on him for her actions. He had challenged her then to allow him to make his own decisions. And he had made a decision last night when he had turned himself in for her freedom.

"I love you," she whispered, feeling his presence so close to hers that she could almost touch him. A tear trickled down her already saline-streaked face. "I promise. I'll be strong for you."

ooooooo

"Your Eminence," a guard's voice announced, "these are for you." The red-coated man bowed, and then un-wrapped two glistening rapiers for his superior to see. "They were discovered on an English-bound ship off the coast of Calais. These match the port master's descriptions of the weapons used by the couple you are seeking. And, oh, this letter accompanies the delivery. It's from London." The red-clad man balanced the steel blades in one hand while fishing with his other into his pocket. He pulled out no ordinary parchment, but one that bore the royal insignia of England's king.

The Cardinal took the letter with piqued curiosity and broke the royal seal. His eyes opened brightly at the words, but he revealed nothing to his waiting guard. Pleased with the content, Mazarin took the swords from his henchman with only the acknowledgement of an intrigued, raised brow. "Good news. Very good news," he aired with a chilling smirk. "Gather the men in the sanctum. Tell them we have some rather gratifying news to discuss," he ordered as he reached out to relieve the guardsmen of the bulky evidence.

The Dark Order's pawn surrendered the two swords and left in a scurry to gather the secret society, per their leader's wishes.

Standing in his office, Mazarin held the rapiers up as though they were the very tools he'd use to skewer their owners with. And then a malicious grin encrusted his face. He laid them down across his desk, precisely where the young d'Artagnan had laid his deceased guard, Bernard's rapier some months ago. "We shall see how empty your threats are now, d'Artagnan," the hateful man spat his words.

ooooooo

Charles d'Artagnan and Ramon arrived with the sun at Calais. Their horses had barely set hoof into town, when the riders heard the port guards announce that a heavily loaded passenger vessel was on approach. Word was that London had suffered a sort of tragedy and that these poor souls were destitute.

The word of 'tragedy' struck the two men standing down their tired horses. Both of their faces clouded with concern. What sort of catastrophe could have possibly befallen these people, causing them to seek refuge in a foreign land? Handing his reins off to Ramon, the commanding Musketeer instructed, "Tend the horses." Frowning, he made his way through the gathering crowd to witness the arrival of this ship firsthand.

As he walked, his senses keenly absorbed the testimonies of fire and total disarray at the heart of England. By the time d'Artagnan had made his way forward to the dock, Jacqueline had made her way down the gangplank of the ship. It was she that spotted her father-in-law first and rushed to greet him. Without announcement, the cloaked, royally dressed woman flung her arms around her unsuspecting childhood hero and tightly clung to the man she now shared a name with.

Not seeing her approach, he barely had the time to register her presence and she was in his arms. His mouth hung agape, betraying a rare emotion of stun for the calloused soldier. Until then, to the legend, she had simply been Queen Anne's daughter, the infant he had lost, his son's love and his responsibility. But now, he began to realize that somewhere in the process he had also become much more than that to her. Slowly, the father in him surfaced to reciprocate the intensity of her embrace. He had held many women before, though never a daughter. The feeling was strange, but warming.

Jacqueline hugged him fiercely, sobbing with her relief of seeing a strong and familiar face. There weren't many she trusted or felt comfortable bearing her burdens with, but her father-in-law was one of those few. After all, he was the great d'Artagnan, and he was here for her when she needed him the most.

It was then that Charles realized that she was alone. "Where's my son?" he voiced his concern, and his eyes scanned the crowd for his relation.

A sense of urgency gripped her. As quickly as she had grabbed her father-in-law, she pushed herself back from his hold. Shaking her head and brushing back her tears with the back of her hands, she tried to bridle her emotions and find her strength. "We have to go back for him. He's being held against his will by King Charles, and he needs our help."

Registering her affluent attire for the first time, the stunned father winced as he began to grasp the gravity of their situation. He was no fool to the power ploys of royalty and immediately suspected England's monarch of foul-play. But before he had time to speak and question her further, he was approached by a man he did not know. "Monsieur d'Artagnan, I presume?" the stranger spoke with crispness.

Frowning quizzically at the unfamiliar face, d'Artagnan noticed a sealed letter in his hand and affirmed his identity with a slight nod.

The carrier handed him the correspondence and explained pleasantly, yet in a business-like tone, "I've been given strict instructions to see that you get this, personally. There is no need for compensation. It is my pleasure to see to this favor. Oh, and the author assured me that you would know who he was." Smiling, he dipped his hat courteously to each and dismissed himself. "Good-day, Monsieur. Madame."

As he watched the man walk off, the recipient wondered who would have known to address him here in Calais and how this man had found him in such a crowd. "Excuse me," he gently relayed to Jacqueline. He turned his attention to the letter, opened it and read:

Monsieur d'Artagnan, Calais' guards could be detained no longer. Paris has been warned. Having bought you all the time possible, we've gone ahead to London.

There was no signature, but there needn't be. He immediately recognized the handwriting of his old friend. Refolding the letter, he slipped it into his pocket. The legend was torn. He hadn't anticipated the two being separated—Jacqueline here and his son still abroad. This led to a new set of plans. He would not leave Anne's child again as he had before. And he would not risk her return to England in an attempt to rescue his son. D'Artagnan had no choice. He would have to leave his son's life in the hands of his comrades. Coldly, he turned to Jacqueline and gave his command. "We return to Paris." Then he walked off to find Ramon.

"What?!" a suddenly livid Jacqueline cried, following the man she had just held so tenderly. "We can't leave him in England!"

Without a word, he paused to hand her the letter and methodically returned to the business of scanning the crowd for the Spaniard.

Unfolding it, she devoured the words and asked without hesitation, "So what does this mean? There's no signature. Who wrote this?" The back of her hand questioningly tapped the paper, making a snapping sound that punctuated her irritation.

Turning toward her to recover the letter, he spoke no longer as her relation, but as her guardian. "All is being done for him that can be. It is adamant that you, young lady, get yourself back to Paris without delay." He diverted his attention from her, back to visually searching for Ramon. Thinking he had spotted the tall Musketeer, he set off after him with purpose.

"Why?" she asked, making long strides to match his pace. "Why is it so necessary for me to return to Paris? I'm a _wanted criminal_ there!" she protested, being careful to keep her voice down at the mention of the words 'wanted criminal.' Her words brought their march to a dead halt.

Having his attention, he gave her a long hard look, and then glanced down at the cross she bore around her neck. "Much has transpired since you left, and I believe that there are those in Paris who have much to discuss with you."

His visual slip had not gone unnoticed by Jacqueline. Physically exhausted and mentally tired of avoiding the topic, she blurted, "Who has something to discuss with me? Cardinal Mazarin? Or does someone, who doesn't want me dead, finally have some answers for me regarding this crucifix and why it's so important?" She glared at him, insisting on an answer.

Alarmed by her tirade and the commotion it stirred in the crowds, he looked around to see several pairs of eyes fixed on them. With slight trepidation, he answered in a lowered and quickened voice, "I won't answer your last question, but I can assure you that no one will allow the Cardinal to lay a hand on you." Realizing that they were drawing attention, he locked his arm with hers in a gentlemanly manner. "Come, let's walk. We need to find Ramon and secure you a horse," he redirected their conversation and position away from the curious on-lookers.

After they had lost the interests of those who had been studying them, Jacqueline spoke again, more restrained, "I still refuse to believe anything in Paris is more important than going after your son."

Still leading her along, arm-in-arm, he reasoned, "He would understand and agree with my duty to see you safely back." It was the best he could do to separate his feelings from his obligations. His feelings rent him in half; as recourse, he welcomed his soldiering nature to take over.

She scoffed, rolling her eyes in disbelief. "You're as bad as he is," she accused, in the light of his father's secretive, arrogant and patronizing way of handling things. "Well, I'm not leaving him there—" She began again, heatedly.

"We aren't abandoning him," he snapped, agitated at her accusation. He had tried to use gentle firmness with her, but she had just hit on a sore spot. It was hard enough for him to make the decision without the one he was trying to protect fueling the guilt of choosing duty over his son, yet again. Quieting his air, he responded in a controlled tone, "He's in capable hands."

D'Artagnan looked at his daughter-in-law in silence as they continued walking for a time. There was so much of her mother in her; yet, she was as strong as her father. The legendary man could not deny that he had also seen greatness in her as the Musketeer Jacques Leponte—her former alias. She was smart as well as stubborn, and he knew he'd have to explain himself to her if she was going to return to Paris with him willingly. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and took in a short, deep breath, before he hastened on to reason with her intellect. "Ramon and Siroc are your comrades, are they not?"

"What?" Jacqueline scrunched her face, confused at the awkward shift in conversation.

He looked at her again to restate his point. "As a Musketeer, Siroc and Ramon are your fellow soldiers, right?"

She nodded and sighed heavily, still highly irritated at his lack of concern over his own son. But somehow, his addressing her as a soldier made her draw from her reserve of patience. Then, a tinge of intrigue washed over her face as it struck her how odd it was of him to be addressing her as a soldier. There she stood in her latest English apparel—cream layers with gold cord, purple bodice and matching accent down the length of her sleeves—and he had referred to her as a Musketeer. She might have questioned him further on that it she weren't so distressed over her spouse.

"Right now, where is Siroc?" he spoke in hushed tones to her ear and waited for her response.

The strangeness of how he saw her faded quickly at the thought of Siroc and his lowered voice. Her answer came back to him in an equally quieted delivery, "Last I was aware, he was working on uncovering Cardinal Mazarin's ploy to corrupt the king." She looked quizzically at him, wondering if he had any news. But still, she saw no relevance in his questions to her husband's situation.

"Yes!" he emphasized, patting her on the arm with his gloved hand, as if she had just answered a test question correctly.

"You just came from Paris. Has he found anything?" her words came out rushed.

He looked at his daughter-in-law and answered in a side-tracked manner, showing that he wasn't prepared to elaborate on that particular topic. "Captain Duval believes your friend has penetrated Cardinal Mazarin's lair—" Jacqueline let out a sound of relief only to be put in check by d'Artagnan's grave addition. "—but Duval hasn't heard from him in several days." Leaving her hanging on her brother-in-arm's progress, he progressed his argument, "My point is that you trust he is doing all he can to assure success. Correct?"

Once again, Jacqueline nodded without a word, impatiently waiting to see what he was getting at.

He lifted a brow as he drove his object lesson home. "My three comrades have my full confidence, just as Siroc and Ramon have yours." The corner of his mouth rose, displaying a characteristic d'Artagnan-like smile at his revelation.

Her chin rose as her face lit up in comprehension. "The letter!" she exclaimed, realizing who it had been from. With that, she also grasped what he was trying to relay to her. "Aramis, Athos and Porthos went to London after us," she whispered their names excitedly, her eyes darting to his for confirmation.

Pleased that he had gotten her to understand his decision, he released her arm. He clasped her shoulder and gave her a weak, disconcerted grin. "Don't think it's a light concern for me. I love him too," he confessed.

She could see the truth of his disclosure in his gaze. Crossing her arms, she frowned and grudgingly nodded an acknowledgement to his plea. She understood, but she didn't have to like it. No matter what this legendary Musketeer and father said, she still felt she was abandoning her husband.

ooooooo

King Charles II's prided city sat physically and spiritually in ruins. Charred, smoldering buildings saw-toothed the hazy skyline. Exhausted people littered the landscape, permitted to do so by the short-handed tower guards. Many of those who currently did not find employment drowned their woes at the makeshift pubs erected on the outskirts of town. In her state of depravity, the city hardly noticed the arrival of the three foreigners.

None of the Musketeers had ever seen the tower of London before. But they figured it was a run-of-the-mill prison. And prison breaks were nothing foreign to these men. Understandably then, they were hard pressed for inspiration when they confronted the formidable moat. A scaling-the-wall, old-fashioned jail break was definitely out.

There they stood—the three of them—lined up at the barrier's edge, stumped. Looking at the putrefying sight, their noses scrunched at its horrific smell of waste. With the entire sanitation system of the fortress dumping into the stagnant well, it was a breeding ground for diseases as well as its flagrant odor. Their quick-witted, gallant plans made on their Vestige journey sat spoiled before them.

Turning his head to look at the companion at his side, Aramis finally spoke up, "Got any other ideas?" Noticing the brawny man beside him pulling out an apple from his tunic, he cringed.

While reflecting, the soldier absently wiped the skin of the fruit on his sleeve and took a bite. Gradually aware of his companion's stare, he offered, "Want a bite?"

"Ugh! Now that's disgusting! How can you think of food, standing in front of this-this filthy, rotten…?" Aramis' vocabulary didn't hold a word for the slime that festered before them.

Glaring his repulsed friend in the eye to spite him, he crunched into his apple. Still chewing on a mouthful, he conjectured, "If we can't sneak in unnoticed, I say we enter through the front door."

Now the second joined the first to look at their comrade incredulously.

"And just walk out with what we came for," mocked Aramis, matter-of-factly. "And how do you suppose we do that?

"When the conventional sally fails, there's always the women," Porthos offered with a twinkle in his eye. "I say we woo some handmaidens to gain entry." He looked to the others with a grin.

Shaking his head in disapproval, Aramis critiqued, "You go right on ahead to the local tavern and find a French-speaking Mademoiselle who happens to have access to this fortress. I'll stick to something less lunatic."

Porthos dropped his core, indignantly. Forcing his large gloved hands upon his hips, he mocked, "As in wooing the local parson's daughter?" Thunderstruck by his own wit, he looked off with a face of enlightenment. "Perhaps that idea is not half a bad one," he rescinded.

"Both of you," a till-then-quiet Athos snapped, "if you'll stop your bickering and look, there to the rampart, you'll see our opportune moment has now arrived."

Aramis and Porthos turned in unison, as though a ball had just been volleyed at a tennis match. Approaching from the distance, three noblemen—obviously already to the tavern and back—loudly gave their disposition away. Drunk! Wet as three kittens, newly-born on wobbly legs, they returned to their apartments in the tower.

"I suggest a campaign to befriend our distinguished Englishmen as though we joined them from the pub. We walk with them arm-in-arm to their tower apartments. And while they take a long nap—aided, of course, by our persuasion—we borrow their unneeded apparel. In the process of assisting them to their bedchambers, we indirectly press them to reveal the location of our object." Having stunned his partners to silence by his sudden and fortified speech, the two men to his side stared blankly.

It was the priestly Musketeer who spoke first. "Athos, my comrade, you should speak more often. You'd save your friends much folly. It's a worthy plan. I'm in."

Where the large man's friends went, he quickly followed. Within a heartbeat, he added, "In!"

And the three Musketeers set stride for the oncoming troupe.

Merging their steps with and latching on to the three senseless drunks was no problem for the enactors. The English nobles were so devoid of presence of mind that they unquestioningly admitted the sturdy guidance of six more legs. Stumbling in mock stupor, the foreigners made their way across the bridge in the company of their new acquaintances, sparing themselves from the impassable moat below.

Approaching the guards, the three Frenchmen lowered their heads to avoid eye contact and to let their drunken partners act as a liaison for their entry. If their plan wasn't going to work, they would soon know.

As soon as that thought could be had, the English sentry stepped forward suspiciously. "You!" he demanded, lowering his spear in Porthos' direction.

The Frenchman's eyes widened, but he kept his head down. Being a man who habitually acted before he thought, without exception, he quickly bolted for the span's edge. Facing away from the others, inconspicuously in the lee of his large frame, he forced his fingers down his throat and wretched his half-digested apple into the murky waters below.

All present groaned and looked away, including the guards. The questioning sentry waved his horizontal spear, gesturing them along. "Get out of here, you drunks!" he growled in disgust. "All of you, go!" he supplemented the urgency of his order.

His deed done, Porthos wiped the trickle of saliva from his chin onto the back of his sleeve. He rejoined the group, bent over and head down in mock sickness to avoid another confrontation.

Safely past the guards, Aramis slipped a word of condolence to his comrade. "Remind me to get you another apple, my friend," he said and then patted him on the back, appreciative of his sacrifice.

They were in the compound, but they were still a long way from their objective. Fumbling their way along, the six men came to a fork just past the entry and shifted direction to the right. Before getting too far from their point of entry, the 'visitor's' awareness peaked, knowing that they had to get their bearings and locate the prison.

Occasionally raising a head over the numb-minded men's backs, the two shot questioning glances toward Athos as to what their next course of action would be. Unable to produce an effective suggestion, Porthos spoke forthright over Athos' hindrance, much to his careful companion's distaste. "Which way's the bloody tower?" he brayed, disturbing the assembly's labored walk.

"What? Are ye mad?" spewed one of the drunks, glaring at him as though he had just tossed a bucket of water in his face. Now standing upright on wobbly legs, he hissed, "No one goes near the tower!" The momentarily sobered man was joined by his two companions in shock as they eyed the man who had suggested such an absurdity.

Porthos stared back blankly and shrugged, thinking his comment undeserving of such criminal censure.

"Mad? On the contrary, my good fellow," Aramis defended, bluntly, "he's had too much to drink and wants to make sure that he _doesn't_ end up there."

A brief silence preceded a bellow of laughter from all three Englishmen, followed in suit by the three relieved Frenchmen.

"Then wha'er ye do—" another drunk stopped and pointed a wavering hand down the corridor before them "—don't g-go that wa'."

"Much obliged, my capital friend. I'll be sure t' steer clear of that passageway," Porthos accented his reply, richly enjoying the role-play. He was truly a man that did nothing in part.

Athos rolled his eyes to dispel further boisterous conversation from his large friend, who in his opinion had much to learn of the English language and of self-control.

Porthos gave a short, false belch while dealing Athos a harsh jubilant glare. For the most part, he ignored the disapproval of his polished friend. He had taken a chance, and the dividend had paid off. He would receive no such reprimand from his scrutinizing comrade.

Slapping backs to disquiet his comrades' battle of wills, Aramis nervously joined the uproar and encouraged the three drunks to resume their discipline of walking. Braced upon one another for support, the six men made a sharp turn to their left and progressed toward the apartments. All three Musketeers visually marked their bearings.

Before long, one flight of stairs and several grand rooms later, the private suites of the three nobles were at hand. Shortly thereafter, all three ale-laden men were comfortably in their bedchambers, de-booted, de-frocked and debilitated. All had transpired just as Athos planned.

With hats pulled low on their brows, the three English imposters emerged from the rooms and backtracked to the forbidden passageway. A nobleman passed them from the opposite direction—apparently absorbed in a letter—and greeted them entirely by the familiarity of their attire, not having noted that the men in the costumes did not match the names he used.

Three grunts and further dipping of hats were their response. Porthos glared behind to follow the noble until he was out of sight. Satisfied that the Englishman had no intent to second-guess the identities of the three men he had just crossed paths with, the tall Musketeer ran to re-join his companions.

Meandering their way to the dreaded bloody tower, the three approached two guards stationed at the stairway leading to their desired destination. Unable to avoid the meeting, the trio proceeded. It was noted that each sentry—as their counterparts at the drawbridge—held a spear at their side and stood with such impeccable stillness that they would have shamed His Eminence's Guardsmen.

"What brings ye here? State your business," one of the guards inquired, unflinchingly.

Porthos was about to speak when his quick-thinking comrade, Athos, cut him off. "Legal matters," he answered, sedately. Being so close to their goal, he wasn't about to allow his manhandling comrade to ruin it now.

Not meaning to cause a distraction, but vexed at his companion's habit of disagreeing with his methods, Porthos balled his large fists to expel his annoyance, soundly cracking his knuckles.

Apparently, the guard interpreted Porthos' mannerism to suggest that their 'legal matters' meant 'interrogation.' Smirking, the guard moved his spear aside, mirrored by the second guard on the opposite side; thus, permitting the entry of the three men.

They were in! Now came the small matter of finding young d'Artagnan and somehow managing not to imprison themselves in the process.

ooooooo

Bored to tears and dead tired, d'Artagnan couldn't sleep. After a long night of attempted escapes, he lay curled up on his side, clutching a handful of blankets and wide awake in tormented thought. Staring off into the shadows of the poorly lit room, all he could think of was his wife in the arms of the hideous man who held him captive. Over and over the memory of what he had witnessed when he had walked into that small cabin in France played out in his mind. He saw Jacqueline's passionately aroused face and affected sigh when Charles left her presence. It wracked him.

D'Artagnan was not only jealous then, but was hot with jealousy now at what this manipulative and powerful man threatened to take back from him. The Frenchman had worked hard overcoming his promiscuous reputation to win the one woman he ever felt worthy of winning. And now to think that someone as unworthy as this presumptuous king would levy his power to steal her from him…it was more than he could lie still for and bear. He brusquely pushed the covers aside and sat up. But what could he do?

Quietly, the prisoner resigned his bed, knowing he would not find sleep. He made his way over to the window and stood in the stream of afternoon sunlight, looking to heaven. "What do you suppose I should do now?" he asked aloud. "I know if Jacqueline were here, she'd know what to say to you, but I guess you're stuck with me. Any suggestions?" He quirked his face as if expecting an answer and waited.

Gradually, from down the hall, the sound of approaching voices distracted his indulgence. Turning from the window and toward the door with growing curiosity, the Musketeer surmised the voices were headed in his direction.

"Check over there," d'Artagnan heard one man say. The prisoner pressed his ear to the door to listen to the lowered voices with better clarity. He pulled back abruptly and cringed when he heard a woman loudly squeal, "Out!" followed by the sound of dinnerware clanging noisily against the stone walls and floor.

Assessing that his door was next, d'Artagnan quickly planned on a little more than hurling dinnerware. Deciding to take advantage of the situation rather than just sit about, awaiting his execution, he gave one last glance back toward the window. "Sorry—" he spoke heavenward "—I guess I'm not the kind of guy to wait around for miracles." Grabbing a wooden chair, he stood off to the side of the door and anticipated the entry of whoever it was with the resolve to fight his way out, or die trying.

The door opened to admit its awaited victim as the readied assailant stood behind the panel, chair braced for delivery. Seeing the head appear from around the corner, the prisoner swung the piece of wooden furniture down heavily upon the unsuspecting man.

"Ouch!" Porthos wailed, raising his hand to the instant welt on his head. As he turned, both men recognized each other. "D'Artagnan?!" the aching man exclaimed. "Is that any way to greet your uncle?"

"Porthos?!" the assailant overlapped his surprise, still holding the remains of the broken chair. "What are you doing here?" Registering that there was no need for resistance, he tossed the splinters remaining in his hands to the floor.

"Rescuing you! What else?" the large man informed sarcastically, looking at the rubble about him and rubbing his throbbing head.

By then, the other two had joined them, pushing their way past their comrade and into the room. Confirming the positive identification of the person with the familiar voice they heard, warm smiles broke out on their faces.

"Athos, Aramis," the captive added happily. "I'm touched. All three of you came for me," d'Artagnan spoke in wide-eyed amusement at the appearance of his three uncles.

"Your father and I may have our differences, but when it comes to you…" Aramis clasped the younger d'Artagnan's shoulder affectionately, reciprocating the friendly teasing. "Well, you are as a son to all of us." He glanced around to see the affirming looks of his comrades.

"Here, here," resounded the remaining two.

Porthos clasped his longtime friend's son on the arm and quipped, "Well, you know our motto, son. 'All for one—'"

"Yes, yes, I've heard it before," the 'son' snorted, putting a halt to the oh-so-stale phrase while returning an endearing slap to the large Musketeer's arm. "Let's get going, shall we? I've already met the king, and I promise you, he's nothing to wait around for," he added with sarcasm. Eager to terminate his tower residency, he cocked his head toward the exit. "I suppose you've got a plan to get past the guards?" he questioned, brows raised, waiting to be filled in.

On his cue, all three men reached around the inside of their coats and pulled out various pieces of wardrobe—Athos a shirt and coat, Aramis a pair of trousers and Porthos a hat in bad need of reshaping.

"Here, put these on," Athos instructed, as he handed d'Artagnan the 'borrowed' clothes from one of the 'sleeping' noble's apartments.

Aramis slapped the hastily changing man on the back as he handed him his contribution to the new wardrobe. "Young man, God just gave you a miracle!" he quipped.

The priestly Musketeer's words stopped d'Artagnan momentarily, trouser leg half pulled up, as he considered the coincidence of his unpolished prayer uttered only a few moments ago. Was this a direct answer to his request? It was something he would have to think about later; this was a time for action. And they were a long way from being safely out of reach of the English king. He tucked the thought away and finished donning the rest of his slightly oversized clothes.

With the prisoner's assumed identity affixed, the four Musketeers were ready to disembark on their return trip to France. The mission was half accomplished, but still would be an utter failure if they managed to be captured before making it past the tower's formidable moat. Athos peeked out into the hallway and motioned to the others when the coast was clear.

Stealthily making their way back down the maze of hallways and stairs, they all pulled back at the last bend when they saw the two guards posted at the bottom. "Act normal," instructed Porthos to their young accomplice.

"Huh? Normal?" The young one drew back with a look of confusion on his face, wondering what Porthos deemed as 'normal' behavior. But, concluding that he'd figure it out shortly by following their lead, he breathed deeply and confidently stepped out with the group.

The statue-like guards' eyes moved to record the presence of the men descending the stairs. The orbs of one darted back in question a second time and his glaciered expressions formed furrowed ridges, registering his response. Stepping forward, he lowered his spear bringing the exit-bound men to a halt. "Weren't there just the three of you?" he questioned. The second guard also demonstrated a perplexing countenance.

The four English-clad, Frenchmen exchanged looks and were about to answer when the appearance of a half-dressed, unkempt man teetered into the adjoining corridor, drawing the assembly's attention. When his wavering stopped long enough to lock eyes on them, Aramis exclaimed in genuine surprise, "The devil! I thought that man would sleep until the second coming."

There was no time to think, which suited Porthos well. He reflexively back-handed the guard behind him who still hadn't had a chance to process the implications of the scene before him.

"Guards!" the sobering man yelled angrily from across the corridor. The picture made quite a sight with him standing there in his underwear and stockings, with a blanket draped over his shoulders. But the Musketeers had no time to stop and appreciate it. Not a moment was wasted when d'Artagnan was upon the rattling man.

"Merciful heaven, he's quick!" admired Aramis of young d'Artagnan's agility. "Ah, to be young," he casually added with a smile before aiding Athos in subduing the first guard.

It seemed that the Musketeers could not have had a successful campaign unless they included a brawl. And here they had it! As the two guards and one drunk were taken out, two more and then three others showed up for the fight.

"Run!" yelled d'Artagnan as he saw the men streaming in.

The three rescuers needed no further prompting. As their nephew had said, the king was not worth meeting, and they had no intention of sticking around to do so. In a flash, the foursome stretched the width of the corridor, making a spectacular line, and broke for the drawbridge.

"This way," Athos called. When they reached the final bend and scuttled around the corner, they escaped their pursuers only to be confronted by a team of five spear-holding, mean-spirited guards.

"Nice rescue job," d'Artagnan noted in his familiar nonchalant tone.

"Did anyone ever tell you, you're a lot like your father?" Aramis quipped back, annoyed.

Athos looked at the junior man and smirked, "Young d'Artagnan, you take two, that'll leave one for the rest."

"Why me, take two?" he asked, slightly affronted.

"We're getting too old for this stuff. But you—" he looked at d'Artagnan with a playful grin "—you're fit and trim, at your prime." Then seeing that young d'Artagnan did not share his amusement, he grumbled, "Musketeers these days, you're getting soft. Why, when I was your age—" But the French soldier had no time to finish his brag, for the men between them and freedom were upon them.

Author's note: The poem at the beginning wasn't supposed to have all those spaces in-between the lines. I'm not sure why it's doing that and I have no clue how to fix it. You'll have to use your imagination to glue them back together... Hope you enjoyed the original's appearance.


	20. Chapter 20

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 20**

**And One for All**

For three days the lone Musketeer had been trapped in the bowels of the palace, hoping to find proof of Cardinal Mazarin's secret society. Having heard the sound of running water, he followed the trail of lit torches only to find them leading nowhere a short distance later. 'Why would someone light only a few torches and then leave the rest unlit?' he hypothesized nearly aloud. Siroc sighed heavily to shake off his lack of concentration. He was tired. He had been alone in this time-eluding prison too long and was beginning to feel the effects.

Again, he forced himself to focus on the evidence presented. He felt the surface of an unlit torch and rubbed the soot between his fingers. With squinted eyes he adjusted his vision to get a better look. The residue was anything but fresh. Progressing down the corridor, he observed that the remainder of the torches lining the descending steps also showed no sign they had been used for some time. Then, the path abruptly ended at an empty, unvisited chamber. Siroc frowned and shook his head, perplexed. More mysteries, he reasoned, were not exactly what he needed right now.

Holding his lantern up, he walked about the vacant stone room, studying it. He stopped to listen to the sound of steadily flowing water, which seemed to come from beneath the ice-cold flooring. Seeing a grate, he placed his lantern down, removed the heavy barrier and slid it aside with effort. At first he could see nothing, but as his eyes adjusted he made out the movement of the blackish fluid running lengthwise from under where he squat. He surmised its path led to the Seine.

Inquisitively, he speculated the purpose of the chamber and the utility of its water source. It was a handy place for disposing unwanted evidence; no one would ever find a discarded object there. Consequently, the scientist wondered how many secrets presently lay at the bottom of this forgotten tributary or somewhere downstream from where he was.

Staring at the water, his vision caught on several obscure objects obstructing the current. He brought his lantern up over the opening to shed more light below. They were unrecognizable at first, but then, he saw them. Horror crept over his face. There, resisting the blackish current, like great stones, were the remains of several corpses, buried forever in the dark, cold waters beneath where few would ever tread. An unnerving wave coursed over Siroc's dampened skin, and he quickly rose to his feet, backing off from the demons that lurked below. With his lantern clutched in his hand, he fumbled his way backwards, all the while his eyes never leaving the haunting pit. When he had reached the steps, he physically shook off his fright and made his way hastily out of the chamber, up to where the last lit torch had been.

Reaching the spot, he leaned his back heavily against the wall and closed his eyes. "Damn!" he cursed aloud, not caring or even giving a thought of anyone hearing him. He reopened his eyes and ran a shaking hand through his hair as he tried to focus his thoughts. "Get a grip!" he reproved himself sternly. Terror blazed in his orbs and a sickly pallor hued his fear-etched features. While intentionally taking deep, extended breaths to calm his nerves, he reached into his sack and withdrew his flask of water. Removing the lid, he emptied it into his parched mouth. When he caught his breath, he replaced the lid—more out of habit than necessity, since there was nothing left inside—and shoved the useless container back into his work sack.

His non-existent water supply and nearly depleted food rations only fed his discouragement. The water beneath the palace was out of the question for drinking with the pollutants of decaying flesh so near. "Perhaps there's nothing else here but dead men, no lair of the Dark Order and no masterminded plot to manipulate the king," Siroc voiced his uncertainty.

He wiped the beading sweat from his brow and leaned his full weight against the stone to study his surroundings. He couldn't be very far from where he had started his journey after leaving Cardinal Mazarin's office. The thought was disheartening. He stared at the cross-shaped mounted torches and their flickering flames. Then it hit him. "Wait one minute," he extrapolated, scrunching his face in astonishment. "No torches were lit when I entered." He wondered excitedly. Who lit them and why had only a few been ignited? And where were these mysterious men now? Overcome by the new wave of questions, he groaned angrily and slammed his fist in frustration on the stone behind him.

To his shock, the stone gave way, depressing with a low rumbling sound into the flushed surface. "Huh?!" he exclaimed, unprepared and unbelieving of what was happening. A pale-faced Siroc stared at the widening rift appearing between the stonework, revealing yet another set of stairs. "A secret passageway within a secret passageway," he whispered, not so much to keep his voice down, but from sheer surprise.

His mind began to whirl with implications. 'Now what could be of such importance that even the privileged weren't to know about this?' Forgetting his fear and bankrupt rations, the inquisitive man eagerly entered the musky doorway, more than ready for a real discovery.

Once more, he saw a stiff descent of stone steps, curving gradually to his right. Before progressing further, he carefully returned the hidden door to its closed position. The infiltrating Musketeer had no desire to draw attention to his unwanted presence by the Cardinal or his henchmen. Satisfied that he had left no trace of his entry, he extinguished his dark lantern and made his way along the torch-lined downgrade. The well-tended flames and worn grooves on the stone steps spoke to him of frequent and recent use.

At the bottom of the stairs a familiar black robe hung on a peg. Hypnotically he took the fabric in his fingers. Siroc and his comrades had seen Cardinal Mazarin wearing perhaps this very cloak on the night they had first witnessed proof of the secret society. Jacqueline's brother had been freed in the wee morning hours by his own winged marvel. The inventor released the garment from his grip as sadness swept over him. Their victory had been short lived. Less than a year later, her brother wound up dead after another confrontation with Mazarin's men.

The grieved friend turned from the cloth and morbid thoughts to peer through the metal, slat gate blocking his way. Finding the release mechanism, the bars raised smoothly, and he stepped through the door and into the chamber. He stood for a moment, scanning the surroundings with an affirmative nod. Although there were immediate puzzles to the structure's design, there was no doubt that he had breeched the Dark Order's den.

A shudder ran through him as he noted the familiar stone flooring he found in the adjoining room with the submerged victims. From the direction he had traveled, he positioned this space directly upstream from where he had been. Again, a grate covered an opening in the center of the floor. Only this one had an enormous stone altar on top of it.

Directly over the altar was a recessed section in the parabolic ceiling. Flat metal sheets interlocked to seal off whatever lay above the chamber. "Whew! Look at that," Siroc exclaimed, giddy at the sight and forgetting his previous fear. To a layman, they were oddly lain metal sheets opening and closing to reveal whatever lay beyond; to the inventor, they represented a costly but brilliant piece of machinery. "A complex iris-like diaphragm controlling the aperture of a lens," he voiced in amazement.

He had read about these mechanisms, but had never imagined one of this size. He marveled how the entire chamber must somehow facilitate the single orifice. In his recent optic inventions, he had skirted around the rudimentary designs of light apertures. If what he was looking at was a giant optic lens, there would be an intense light source on the other side of it—the sun or other celestial body, perhaps. "But what would receive the focused beam?" he questioned, riddled by the absence of an object other than the ordinary stone altar below the opening. As he pondered over his analysis, he visually checked the perimeter walls for some sort of machinery to open the barriers.

High along the walls were several large depressions where recessed reflective surfaces were mounted within. He could see that the mirror mounts on the adjoining walls were nowhere in line with the lens' light path. Yet, somehow he knew the glass or mirrors held some purpose with the enormous mechanism. He knew he'd have to climb up there to have a closer look at their physical properties and at the direction of their focus. Noticing a narrow ledge beneath the fixtures, he began looking around for a pedestal or any other fixture to climb up on. While he searched, he continued to classify the components of the Spartan-like chamber.

Directly across from where he had entered, a wider set of short steps climbed to another iron grate that barred a larger entry. There, the waterway was unobstructed by flooring, providing a dock for the reclusive meeting place. Siroc guessed that townspeople doubling as secret order members made their mysterious entries and exits via this route.

_Where_ and _how_ was coming together, but Siroc needed to know _what_ went on there. Just to the right of the still-gated doorway was a flat-topped stone with an ancient book on it. Like a fly to meat, the scientist flew across the distance to eagerly feast on his find. Anxious, but careful not to disturb the fragile pages, he delicately turned the cover and the first of its leaves. "Knights of the Order of the Black Tabernacle," he hoarsely whispered, every inch of his body prickling with goose bumps. This was it! Proof of the secret society's deviant activities sat right before the Musketeer's eyes.

Wanting to read more of its pages, he quickly turned mid-way through the tome. The words were in Latin, but that was no hindrance to the self-educated man. Half of what he had accumulated in scientific reading had been in foreign languages. But the fact that this book was in Latin spoke that these rites had been passed down through those with Roman descent. In the heyday of the Roman Empire's accumulation of religious artifacts, the insatiable quest to manipulate the supernatural had driven power-hungry men to grasp at any and all venues of religious powers. His eyes scanned the pages. What he read did not weaken his hypothesis. In essence, the volume contained recipes for conjuring up and harnessing life powers from subjected hosts.

Siroc cringed. While he was fascinated in the possibilities, he could see why the manuscript was kept secret. It was sadistic and dark in nature and purely egocentric in purpose. It was the 'how to' of taking what belonged to another and wielding it for personal gain. Brutal and unethical methods were written on the pages with total disregard for life. Siroc closed the book. What he had here would be more than enough to remove the Premier from office if he could be tied to it. He shoved the sizeable artifact in his bag, barely fitting it in. Shifting the weight of his bag to his back, he continued his tour around the den.

On yet another stone pedestal a single box sat. The inventor made his way over to unlatch the lid and reveal a perfect, black obelisk within. Its appearance immediately triggered the Musketeer's memory of the markings he had seen on several dead men suspected of belonging to Mazarin's secret society.

The cold, dark stone had ancient writing descending its length. He had seen the writ before, but he had no idea of its translation. And Siroc doubted that Mazarin or his cronies had made headway in translating it either. If it was the hieroglyphics he believed it to be, it was a lost language. Egypt's scribes had lost the ability to read their own pictorial writing sometime in the fourth or fifth century. No one could interpret it; anyone who tried would only be guessing.

His suspicion was warranted. The night his comrades and he had rescued Gerard, the recognized voice of Cardinal Mazarin had sounded anything but certain of what he read in the ancient text. It made the Musketeer feel sick, remembering the man who had lost his life over the cliff just to satisfy the masked leader's curiosity. He looked at the tower-shaped stone and wondered what guesswork the Dark Order used the obelisk for now.

His thoughts returned to the lens. Curiously, he considered the origin of the Egyptian obelisk. In Greek, _obelisk_ meant skewer—referring to the shape of a roasting-pit tool. He smiled at how unscientific that sounded. As with many superstitious icons, its unusual name did have a bit of a history. The obelisk dated to the Egyptian worship of Ra—their sun God. Underlying Ra's association with the "skewer" shape was the natural occurring "light pillar" phenomena. With the right atmospheric conditions, a solar reflection would give off a vertical tower of light in the sky. This occurrence visually resembled the shape of a roasting pit skewer; thus, it was given its name—obelisk. Over time, the artifact's association with the ancient religion gave its name a mythical sound.

'Sun god; light pillar…_lens_!' the tingling thought hit Siroc. 'Was there a connection of the obelisk to the lens apparatus? Was that what this chamber's construction was all about?' Excitedly, yet with care, he lifted the object from its case and brought it to the altar in the center of the room. Setting it below the closed ceiling lens, he stepped back to process the configuration. 'Yes!' he reasoned. 'This did make sense!'

Reminding himself that he had yet to find the trigger mechanism to open the diaphragm of the lens, he quickly returned to complete his mapping of the room. One last platform stood to the side from where he had entered. Blood stained the porous stone surface. It was no question that men had been tortured and perhaps had even died there. Unfolding a cloth pouch that sat on top, Siroc gazed at numerous fine tools that he presumed someone's vile hands had used to experiment on their victims.

What the Musketeer saw angered him. How many lives had the religious man's pursuit of mystic powers claimed? At heart, Mazarin was no holy man, representing his church's beliefs; he was a maliciously evil imposter, taking on any form that offered a promise of accomplishing his will. No matter what goal the Cardinal thought he was serving, the means were certainly no justification for it.

It was then that Siroc realized what he'd have to do. In the event he was unable to resurface with the knowledge he had gained, he would not risk leaving his discovery in the hands of the crooked Cardinal. Quickly, he looked around and made his plans. He'd waste no time; he may not have another chance at it.

ooooooo

Cardinal Mazarin and his parascientist, Jean Baptiste Morin, were in His Eminence's office discussing agenda for the meeting that was about to take place. "Are you sure the attachment is complete?" the leader asked. "I have some imminent plans for Marie to carry out."

"Yes, Your Eminence," Morin's weaselly voice responded. "Mademoiselle Mancini's energy, or life force if you will, has been successfully linked to the king's. Like a puppet, where she goes, he will follow. What she asks, he will find impossible to resist."

"For your sake, I hope you are right," the Premier coerced mildly.

"I know I am correct," Morin answered with feeling. Strolling across the Cardinal's office toward the secret door, he supported his positioning in detail. "The sacred text dictates it. For every inherent power there is a mate. Match them up through rites, careful manipulation of formulas gained through coded lettering of religious text and reinforce that with a strong self will… any soul can be conquered. I'm positive of it!" Stopping at the armoire, he looked to his employer. His eyes blazed as a mad man's, fully immersed in and sold to his cause. "And we have seen the pair bond right before our very eyes, have we not?" he resounded, levying for his skeptic's support.

Mazarin paused in consideration. Finding nothing to dispute the man's claims on, he agreed, "Very well, I will progress with Marie as planned." His bearded chin dipped and his firm glare rested on the occultist. With that, the Dark Order leader placed his hand on the horse-head mechanism and opened the secret passage for Morin to pass through. He watched as the short, round, balding man disappeared through the arch. The red-robed leader would soon follow, but first he had some affairs to tend to.

ooooooo

Outside Cardinal Mazarin's office, a trembling dark-haired waif stood plastered to the wall. Marie Mancini had been about to knock—intending to drop in on her uncle for what she deemed to be a long overdue tête-à-tête—when she overheard the mention of her name. Taken back by hearing her uncle and another man talking about her, she held off announcing her presence and wound up eavesdropping instead. What she had heard terrified her.

Without warning, a guard seized the petite girl from behind by her thin elbow and delivered a sound rap to his boss' door. Receiving a muffled approval from within, he entered, dragging the protesting girl into the Premier's office. "Your Eminence, look who I found snitching outside your door," he informed, prideful at having been of service to the powerful man.

Marie looked around the room in confusion. Her uncle was alone; yet, she had distinctly heard a second man's voice just moments ago. Questions raced through her mind. Where could he have gone? Could he still be there, hiding somewhere? Had she really heard anyone at all?

Her puzzlement must have been transparent to her lofty relation, because he let out a disappointed sigh and shook his head. Calmly folding his hands, he began pacing the room as if considering his next words with care. "Tsk, tsk," he expressed his reprimand, "you must know that the affairs of your uncle can be… sensitive in nature." He pivoted his head around to read her response.

Marie was frightened. All she had wanted to do moments before was to enjoy her distinguished relative's company and to thank him for inviting her to Paris. But in light of what she had just overheard and her uncle's odd behavior, nothing was making any sense. Unsure of what to say in her defense, the usually talkative female balked. "But uncle, this is all a mistake. I came by just to say hello," she nervously discharged herself of any wrongdoing, her dark curls bouncing with the shake of her head.

The Cardinal studied the girl blankly before turning to his guard. "You see, my niece was just coming to tell me that she missed me," he excused smoothly, barring his teeth in an unconvincing smile. His business with the child was personal, and he would not permit his henchman to invite himself into affairs that did not concern him.

"Of course, Your Eminence," the guard responded, less sure of himself than before.

"That will be all," Mazarin dismissed calmly.

Marie's eyes followed the subservient man as he left the room, and then returned her worried gaze to the intimidating man she was now alone with. Why, she wondered, would her uncle obviously shroud his intent to get rid of his guard? In a short passage of time, Marie Mancini had been exposed to a deceptive side of the esteemed man that she had never even suspected existed before.

"Now—" the outwardly patient Premier circled his captive "—be honest. Tell your uncle exactly what you heard." Once again, he smiled warmly, inviting her to speak freely.

Closing her large brown eyes, she sighed heavily and drew on her courage. She decided that she could not fib to the man who had shown her nothing but kindness up to this point. If there had been some misunderstanding, he would surely accept her genuineness and correct her where she erred. "Uncle, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to listen. But when I thought I heard you and another man discussing me and how I would help you persuade Louis…" She stopped to open her eyes and look ponderingly around the room, and then began again more doubtfully, "But I must have been wrong, because there's no one here but you."

"No, there's no one here but me," he echoed in agreement, completing his picture of innocence with his fingers piously interlaced.

Compelled to speak her heart, she confessed, "I care for Louis too much, Uncle. If it were true—what I thought I heard—I want you to know that I could never be dishonest to him." Her brown eyes looked pleadingly at her religious relative. She had really wanted to talk with him about how she'd fallen in love with the king, but their present situation had clouded that hope with awkwardness.

Mazarin stood, head tilted to the side, in consideration. His flaring indignance was kept well in check under his mask of benevolence. Unfolding his prayerfully clasped fingers, he approached the girl in a patronizing manner. "Go, my child; spend the day with Louis. Obviously, there's nothing to warrant your concern. Like you said, it was all a misunderstanding." He took her by the arm and led her to the exit.

Marie could tell he was not being forthright with her; he was hiding something. Confused and speechless, she let her uncle lead her along.

Mazarin stopped before the door. Momentarily dropping the civil pretence, his face hardened along with his grip on her arm. He leaned close to her ear and grated, "I will say this nicely only once. Be warned, my dear niece, if what you desire is truly here in Paris, do not be foolish enough to think that you have a choice when it comes to matters of state. Oh, and listening in wrong places can cause… _grave_ misunderstandings." He nodded condescendingly, locking gaze with his wide-eye subject. Satisfied that his point had been driven home, he released the girl's delicate arm and let her out.

In the hallway, the petite Italian girl turned back toward the shut door, stunned by her uncle's dark-sided behavior. Her imagination ran wild. What was he trying to do with Louis and just how much freedom of choice was she willing to give up for love? Trembling from the confrontation, she left her silent questions unanswered at her uncle's door and resumed her path down the corridor, resolved to find her beloved.

ooooooo

One man had decided how much he'd be willing to give up for those he cared for. Siroc had evidenced enough suffering under the leadership of the malicious Cardinal, and he was determined to put an end to it. The inventor reached into his workbag, feeling around for his last minor adjustment piece to the chamber's mechanism. "Mazarin will pay for his crimes," he choked past the dry lump in his throat.

"Will he?" came a voice from behind him along with the sound of a cocking flintlock. "I advise you to stop what you're doing and put your hands up," the voice warned.

Startled, the blond-haired man released the object his fingers were curled around in his bag. The inventor's eyes opened wide and he could feel the hairs on his neck rise. Someone had caught him in the act of sabotage. Quickly, his mind shifted to cover for the worst-case-scenario. In an unprovoking manner, he removed his hand from the sack to join his other one in the air.

"I do believe that is a Musketeer's uniform you wear, not the proper attire for our little club," the mysterious man sneered. "Turn around slowly and identify yourself," he ordered with less humor.

Siroc cautiously kept his hands up and cranked his neck around. From over his shoulder, he could see the profusely sweating man dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. It was Jean Baptiste Morin, and he was profoundly nervous. Most likely, the soldier thought, he had no stomach for the actual dirty work of His Eminence and had not expected to run into company in the sanctum. This was information he could use, knowing that the wimp-of-a-man would prefer waiting for the others to arrive. The procrastination would hopefully buy Siroc the few moments that he needed.

Morin's chin rose and his face lit up in recognition of his adversary. "I know who you are," he sneered. "You're that fool who turned down Cardinal Mazarin's offer to work for him." Gesturing wildly with the flintlock, he arrogantly scoffed, "It's all the better for me that I don't have a young know-it-all running about underfoot, delaying my progress with his uneducated questions."

Siroc stung with surprise that the noted scientist had even heard of him. The man's words were arrogant, but the soldier thought he saw a tinge of fear in Morin's bold front. Or was it envy? The inventor pivoted for a better view of his subject. Was it possible that this man felt his career was being threatened?

"Siroc," Morin snickered haughtily. "What an odd name. Did your parents not know what to name you?"

With his hands still up, the inventor let out a pathetic laugh and returned the compliment. "Jean Baptiste," he said, letting his captor know that he too was aware of the other's identity. "What a common name for a common criminal," he tagged on in flattened sarcasm. "How convenient that half of King Louis' staff shares the same assumed name. It stands out just as much as your questionable accomplishments."

"Pshew!" Morin smirked. "Accomplishments. You would know nothing about accomplishments, working out of that makeshift lab of yours in some storeroom of Musketeer headquarters. I'm sure your captain allots you ample funding for your pitiful research," he jeered through his nose. "My employer once spoke highly of your talents; yet, less so of your affiliates. Your worthless band of associates will get you nowhere. Without funding and endowments, your genius will go to waste."

"Oh, I don't know." Siroc detected the bitterness in Morin. Needing to divert the man's attention, he played on it. "I'd say my choice of friends are of high character, which is more than you can say for yours."

"Friends," Morin mocked, his eyes keenly on Siroc's back, "where are you're friends now? Let me tell you about friends. The first chance your brilliance brings you recognition, they'll disappear into the stonework." He scoffed loudly, "Friends!"

The Musketeer still had not fully turned to face Morin. With his hands up and peering over his shoulder, he purposely kept his betraying expressions and bulging workbag obscured from his foe's line of vision. Calmly, he continued to engage the man in conversation, "Well, I don't know. Sounds to me like you just chose the wrong friends… or maybe the wrong branch of science to gain your notoriety." Siroc's fingers twitched, anxious for the minute distraction that would allow him to work his final deed.

Privately, the Musketeer grinned, believing he knew exactly what motivated this opportunist. Previously, he told Captain Duval that Morin's pride had estranged him from the scientific community. Now, the young scientist believed that the aging, unpopular man had most likely taken his current position out of fear that he would not be remembered for any of his life's works.

Siroc considered how his comrades often accused him of being solitary. It was a truth he would admit to; he did like to work alone. But, he did not work to promote himself as this man did. The Musketeer believed that a scientist's tribute was in advancing the causes of mankind, benefiting all. Da Vinci's mechanical invention had taught him that lesson firsthand. The curiosity of building what could be built had been so great that Siroc had nearly lost everything really mattering to him. "Morin, you're nothing but a corrupted, selfish man who will sooner or later end up with nothing you want," he declared with mixed sadness and distaste.

"Silence!" Morin lashed out. "No more talk until the others arrive."

The captive submitted to the suggestion. Conversation had proven futile; he'd have to divert the armed man's attention with something else. But an alternate course of action of his making was not to materialize. While he was yet scheming, echoing footsteps and voices could be heard approaching from the dock side of the sanctum. Siroc was out of time; his move would be now or never.

"It will all soon be over," the round man gloated, shooting an anticipating glance over his shoulder.

Morin's brief look away was all Siroc needed to capitalize on the situation. He lowered his hand and shoved it into his pack, re-claiming the final touch needed to set his chain-reaction into motion. The contrived object had originally been fashioned as a gift for Ramon, to lure him away from his lab. When the poet mentioned how the flicker of the candlelight about the room inspired him to write, the inventor created the multi-faceted, mirrored, spherical object on an oscillating stand for the Spaniard's private quarters. The work-in-progress was never intended to have wound up at the palace with Siroc; it had made its way into his workbag sheerly by the fact that it required the use of the glass-working tools stored within. He carefully removed the object from his pouch and ushered it to its position on the blood stained slab. Gently, so as not to upset its balance, he gave it a spin on its axis and stepped back to watch.

Concurrently, the Musketeer saw the large gated entry recede upward and the Dark Order men begin to file into the room. As of yet, they hadn't taken note of the stranger's presence; most likely, he figured, they had not expected to see an outsider in their most sacred chamber. Before Morin could alert them to his captive's identity, Siroc heard a whirring sound and realized that someone had activated the opening of the metal plates overhead.

His moment had arrived. "Here goes nothing," he mumbled and watched with great anticipation. His eyes darted about the room—from orifice to obelisk, from obelisk to recessed reflectors. Gradually, the resonance hummed louder and louder as the light poured in. The black object in the center began to glow with a bluish-white hue and emitted rays diagonally toward the individual mounts on the wall.

Like a child having set up a line of pegs and preparing to watch them fall, the blond-haired inventor anticipated the result of his carefully orchestrated grand finale. The beams intensified and began to reflect off the wall recessions. Then, two of the refracted rays met their intended end—the spinning mirrored ball. Suddenly, the room ignited with a dazzling display of dancing lights.

The effect completely surprised and terrified the dark robed men entering the chamber. Mayhem broke out. Superstitious of the obelisk's inherent powers, the men sought to avoid the ever-moving lights. Bumping into one another, pushing, shoving, and climbing under surfaces, they scrambled in confusion.

While chaos erupted, Siroc gleaned a last look at one particular recessed mount where he'd fixed his dioptic lens. He anticipated that the lens from his dark lantern would act as a magnifier for the beam, making it even stronger as it hit its mark. His observation was short lived. The effect was more than he had hoped for. 'Now!' his internal sensors blared. He grasped his sack tightly to his side and braced himself for a dive. As he did, everything in the room went amuck.

The amplified beam that hit the grating below the altar gave a spectacular display of light. Its intense energy superheated the support with an eerie glow. Effectually, the weight of the stone above compromised its strength and the whole structure collapsed downward to the water below. The obelisk that sat on top jostled from its perch, misaligning it from the sun's rays. Abruptly, all displays of light and vibration cut off. A sudden and deafening interlude of calm and soundlessness enveloped the sanctum before the black icon met the stone floor with a loud smack, shattering it into uncountable splinters. Pieces shot forcefully in every direction as though an innate force had exploded from within its blackness sending its shockwave outward. Then, all fell silent and only the natural lighting from the ceiling skylight filtered into the motionless chamber.

Through the misty haze, Mazarin appeared. The luminary's silhouette alone cast a respected quiet over his cowering, fearful men. They watched his face undulate between disbelief and livid anger as he gawked at the enormous hole in the center of the sanctum floor where the octagon pedestal had been.

Quaking on the verge of losing control, he visually scoured the sanctum, assessing the damage and calculating who to blame. Everywhere he looked, black glass shards littered the stonework beneath his feet. The icon that had been handed down for centuries in the Secret Order of the Knights of the Tabernacle lay destroyed and irreparable for all time. Its power, his power, had been broken, and the knowledge pierced him straight through.

Mazarin was about to speak, to ascertain the first victim of his psychotic rage, when someone spoke up from behind the dark leader. "Where is he?" the small, raspy voice asked. The plump man stepped forward, aimlessly brandishing a flintlock.

Realizing it was his parascientist who spoke, the religious leader demanded with great constraint, "Where's who?" Silently, he swore that if the sniveling man ranted on about some resurrected enemy's spirit seeking revenge, he'd kill him. He was in no mood for a superstitious guessing game.

"Why Siroc, Your Eminence," Morin replied, unafraid and as if his employer should have known. "I caught him snooping about in the sanctum," he explained as he waved the weapon wildly about.

"Siroc?!" the Premier railed, explosively. Alarm rippled over his demeanor, and he distractedly confiscated the man's weapon as though he were swatting an annoying fly. "Find him!" he barked out at the idle group of men.

No further encouragement was needed. Immediately the black robed men scrambled like roaches, combing every section of the underground labyrinth. Some retraced their steps to the boat while others searched the adjoining passageways. All effort concluded one thing: Siroc had vanished.

Having given up their vain efforts, the men gathered again in the sanctum. One of the Cardinal's guards stepped forward and knelt by the hole where the pedestal had been. Wonder shone on his face. "Your Eminence, look!" he said and slowly un-snagged a strap of cloth from the jagged rim. Raising it up, Siroc's workbag slowly emerged from the icy water. "He must have fallen though with the altar and drowned," the guard informed his master.

Cold sweat trickled down Cardinal Mazarin's tension-lined forehead. If that intuitive Musketeer had somehow penetrated his sanctum, then who else knew about its existence? His comrades? Captain Duval? "I want a body!" he exploded, blazing from mask to mask. "I want that water searched! I want proof he is dead!"

His horrified men balked at the order. They all knew what lay beneath their feet. No one said it, but they were all thinking it—their leader had lost his sanity. Only one question riddled their thoughts: How far would they go in following this mad man? Standing there, they watched him, the man who had caused nations to tremble, shrink before their eyes.

Mazarin flinched, feeling a wave of panic set in over his crumbling world. "No! I want them all dead!" he bellowed, fighting back. "I will not succumb to them! They will not destroy the society that I have worked so long and hard to build!" Convulsing with rage, his eyes pierced into the souls behind each of his men's masks. "I still wield the power to destroy the Musketeers." His face glowed hauntingly as he revealed the conspiracy. "King Charles II has expressed his desire to form an alliance with France in exchange for certain collateral—" a bated prelude elapsed before he spat his curse "—Jacqueline Roget, that d'Artagnan wench, and the beheading of her irksome Musketeer husband." Having said his news, the Premier fled the sanctum to pursue his mission, leaving his men to make their decisions.


	21. Chapter 21

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 21**

**Beacon of Light**

Father and daughter-in-law walked arm-in-arm through the palace hallways. No one but the royal family knew they were coming, and that was the way they wanted to keep it. After their previous night's arrival in Paris, the man with "connections in high places" immediately set out to speak with the queen. His late-night visit paved the way for the reunion about to take place in the Queen-mother's private suite. It was to be an unannounced gathering for the estranged family only, uninhibited by outside influences.

Although he too had been invited to attend, d'Artagnan would not be staying. Jacqueline had wanted to do this alone. Reaching their destination, the legend gently looked at his very nervous charge. "Will you be all right?" he asked.

His voice jarred her from her preoccupied thoughts. Suddenly realizing how tightly she had been holding his arm, she loosened her grip. "Yes," she replied numbly, her heart pounding within her chest. An awkward moment passed as she stood there staring at the closed door. Part of her didn't want to let go of his reassuring presence, but her instincts told her that this was something he could not help with. He had done enough to help her already and she was thankful. Realizing that she was only putting off the inevitable, she released his arm and nodded hastily to confirm that she was ready.

His eyes studied her as he raised his hand to knock on Anne's door. He watched how she fidgeted with her dress. The deep blue gown had been bought by him in Marseilles when she was there to marry his son. Jacqueline had chosen with care today in wearing it—not overdone, but tasteful. She looked so much like her mother, he thought. "You're beautiful," he encouraged, unable to hide his affectionate smile.

Aware of his surveillance, she quit her nervous play and sighed deeply.

Having heard Anne's reply from within, permitting them entry, d'Artagnan took Jacqueline's hand and kissed it as he bowed. "Remember who you are, Milady, and be yourself," he offered before opening the door to usher her in.

ooooooo

Jacqueline took a few paces into the room and froze. Immediately locking gaze with the woman she was already so familiar with but had never seen in the light she now saw her—as a mother, _her_ mother. The truth of that revelation was evident in the matriarch's eyes, which uncharacteristically begged for forgiveness.

For the first time since coming into the room, Jacqueline took a breath, filling her lungs full of air. As she did she noticed that off to the side of the room, Louis slipped a ribbon between the pages of a book and closed it. "Your Majesty," she addressed and curtsied with caution.

Laying the volume on the table, he stood to silently acknowledge her. He looked as though he'd rather be anywhere but there. He was tense, from his facial features clear down to his hands balled into fists.

Whatever book he had been reading, Jacqueline doubted the content was the source of his tenseness. The woman Musketeer who had spent the past year protecting him didn't know how to read his mannerism. Did he resent her? No. He had told her not so long ago that he did not. She judged that this assemblage must be as difficult for him as it was for her.

"Jacqueline, please—" implored the royal woman. She gestured sincerely for her guest to join her, but she was tearfully unable to finish her invitation. Dabbing her face with her tightly clasped handkerchief, she finally managed to get her words out, "We have much to talk about."

Like Louis, Jacqueline found herself mutely nodding. While her sibling reclaimed his distanced seat, she took a few steps forward to accompany Anne on the settee. She felt completely out of place. Was she to bow to this woman or hug her? She was torn, wanting to turn and bolt, and desired to ask her a million questions at the same time.

Seeing the young woman she'd known to be her daughter for several months now, finally know the truth—at least the partial truth—tears formed, unsolicited, in the mother's eyes. She could maintain her pretense no longer. On this rare occasion, Anne's emotions were transparent. It was her nature or perhaps her royal training to trivialize matters of the heart, to mask her feelings. But this was not one of those times. She had caged her emotions for too long, and the secret she had borne for so many years spilled over like the welling dam behind her facade. "I have so much to apologize for, so much to explain," she began with great effort. But with the words out, she opened the door to their past and spanned a bridge to their future.

For the next part of the morning, Anne recaptured the difficult memories of Jacqueline's beginnings, filling in the gaps of King Charles' story. Her two offspring listened, interjecting questions here and there. Louis hardly spoke at all, and then he only asked if anyone was hungry or wanted a short intermission. Both women got the distinct impression that he wrestled deeply with the sordid details of his mother's past, but neither knew how to draw it out of him. At a loss of how to bring him into their conversation, they left him quietly to his thoughts and to eventually return to his book. Meanwhile, the two of them struggled on to reestablish their bonds.

"All these years," Anne transitioned from the past to present, "I feared if you knew, you'd hate me." Gentle tears trickled from the source of her saddened eyes.

"No. I don't," Jacqueline responded, genuinely. "How could I hate you?" She reached for her mother's trembling wrist. "I have no regrets with the childhood I've had. It was wonderful." The warm smile that momentarily graced her face as she recollected her farm days turned to deepened sympathy for the remorseful woman. "You were young and frightened, and you acted to spare me from what you believed would be a living hell for me. I won't judge your intentions and I won't say that you made the right choice either, but I do understand something about making wrong choices." She confessed, "I took a man's life in anger when my father…" She paused when she realized that the man who had every bit been her father, was truly not.

"That's quite all right," Anne made concession, "the man who cared for you deserves the title of father." Still sobbing, the Queen-mother raised her kerchief to dab her moistened cheeks.

"My point is that God has shown me firsthand that forgiveness is much more freeing than harboring resentment and revenge." Looking for the right words, her brow creased and then relaxed again at discovering them. She looked into the monarch's eyes and said, "I know now that I could have never forgiven you if I hadn't needed forgiveness first for myself. The fact stands that neither of us can go back and relive those lost moments, but we can go ahead from where we are. Something I heard Brother Antoine say sounds appropriate for a moment like this: 'Love covers a multitude of sin.'" She paused to look into her mother's eyes. "I forgive you for what you've done," she whispered, choking up.

The pardon poured like salve over the grieved mother's heart. For so long she had penned up her secret, allowing the guilt to torment her. Jacqueline's words gave her renewed hope. Reaching out, she eagerly took Jacqueline into her arms and clung to the life-giving forgiveness her daughter extended.

When the tearful women released one another, Anne's eyes fell on the pendant around her daughter's neck. "Jacqueline," her tone suddenly changed, "there is something that you must know about your cross." The lavishly dressed woman drew an air of secrecy in regard of what she was about to say. "As you may have understood, there is much significance behind the crucifix you wear."

Jacqueline took the chain from about her neck and held the pendant in her palm. Looking at it she informed, "I know that there's something on the back of the cross," and filled in the bit of information she had gleaned from King Charles II during her unpleasant stay in England. Then, softness returned to her features as her memories took her to an earlier and more agreeable time in her childhood. "I've always known it was there, but I guess I took it for granted and never realized that it meant something." Coming full circle from past to present, she searched the eyes of the woman who held its secret.

"It means a great deal," Anne confirmed in her warbled voice. "Although it appears to be an ordinary crucifix, I assure you, this one is quite unique." She took the cross from Jacqueline and delicately fingered it. Hesitation crossed her face, as though she pondered a complicated issue.

"Maximilian II was an emperor of the Holy Roman Empire," she began. "The emblem you see on the back of your cross is the two-headed eagle from the Tyrol coat of arms belonging only to an emperor." They both stopped to look at the familiar symbol. "My—" Anne interrupted herself with a smile to her daughter and corrected her fact "—_your_ great-great-great-grandfather, Maximilian II, gave it to his first-born daughter; thus, starting the tradition."

Jacqueline's jaw dropped. She was still trying to assimilate the fact that her paternal mother sat before her—the Queen-mother of France. Now she was being hurled into a reality that surpassed even her wildest girlhood dreams of being the 'Great d'Artagnan.' She was royalty, and of a lineage that even Charles Stuart would covet. Recovering what presence of mind she could, she breathed in sharply and closed her mouth to listen.

"His first-born was your great-great-grandmother, Anne of Austria. The crucifix you're wearing was a gift to her as his first-born."

"When Anne married, her first born was my father, King Philip III of Spain. And I, being his first-born, and named after my grandmother, was in line to receive the crucifix as the first-born daughter bearing her name."

The mother paused, still holding the cross in one hand, and she reached to touch her daughter's hand with her other. "There is more," she spoke softly and lifted her moistened eyes to meet her daughter's. "The Emperor passed along a message with his gift." Endearingly, she brought the piece up so both could see its face. "Do not mistake the simplicity of the design with its value. Your ancestor was quite capable of giving jeweled trinkets to his girls. And believe me, a good many came into my possession that I'd like for you to have."

Jacqueline gasped at this and her eyes jumped up to assess the matriarch's seriousness. She had certainly not expected anything material in the reestablishing of their bonds.

Anne continued, "But he wanted this particular gift to remain simple. He wanted us to remember that the message of the cross was as simple as its presentation." The woman of fashion and protocol relaxed to share a rare moment of inward transparency. "Oh, he knew that the peculiar problems of royalty could get… complicated. In the midst of all the wealth and pageantry, he wanted to remind his daughters, who he knew would face some of the most difficult challenges in being married off to foreign lands, that their source of strength was only a belief away."

Anne readjusted her gown in habitual fidgeting. "So, that day when you came to walk in the garden with me—" she started lightly, but soon faltered "—and you told me that the cross you wore reminded you of your parents, your brother and that God was with you in all things… I nearly came undone." Her voice proved difficult to find, and again, the mother lifted her kerchief to lightly pat her welling tears. "The words you spoke, without even being told its meaning, taught me that maybe I could still believe."

Awe was written in every feature of Jacqueline's face. She had never known the woman before her to possess such depth or so much heartache. Speechlessness was the only response she found for what she heard.

"Jacqueline, _you_ were my first-born, and had I the courage—" her voice squeaked, emotionally wrought. But for the sake of finishing the words she had only dreamt of saying until now, she forced herself to continue. "—had I the courage, you would have borne the name Anne and carried on that legacy. The fault is mine for the breach, but I will not allow that to deprive you of your rightful heirloom and its message. So, passed down as a gift from your great-great-great-grandfather, the crucifix is yours, Jacqueline. It belongs to the first-born female in the line of the emperor's daughters." With these words, she returned the cross to her long-lost child. Pressing it into her palm, she embraced her and wept tears that lent to healing their years of separation.

At this point, Louis stirred, closing his book and setting it on the chair next to him. He had been eavesdropping in on the reconciliation from over the top of his book. Mesmerized by what took place before him, the young sovereign had sat unresponsive. Outwardly he was adorned like the ornate gilded book he had been hiding behind, but inwardly an epic war raged. Increasingly unable to reconcile the son and brother in him with the king that he knew he was obligated to be, Louis rose abruptly and excused himself lamely, "Uh, I have a... something to tend to." In his animated way, he bolted through the door before either stunned female could question him.

Outside in the hall, he leaned in deflated relief against the closed door. "Whew!" he sighed as though he had just been chased by a mob. He had escaped for now; meanwhile, what he needed were answers, not only for them, but for him. He nervously bit his lip and looked up and down the hallway, pining for a place to hide.

An idea struck him and he stopped his jittering. "I could ask my Premier what he thinks," he lilted with brightened eyes. As suddenly as he had given the thought substance, his brows shifted and he overreacted to its implications. "Oh, no, no, no!" he exclaimed, covering his 'O-shaped' mouth with his hand. Shaking his blond-wigged head and scrunching his nose, he concluded that would be a very bad idea. Marie's recent conversation with him had shed a very untrusting light on his political advisor.

He rolled his eyes ceiling-ward and began sifting through a list of names, the first being foremost on his mind, "Marie? D'Artagnan? Duval? Ramon?" But with each name, he tagged on a rejecting twitch of his head—utterly dismissing his final consideration as sheer desperation. "No, what I need is nothing short of divine wisdom—like the great King Solomon possessed." He tapped his chin with his slender finger and pondered over the concept briefly before pointing his index digit heavenward. "Aha! I shall ask 'the man' himself!" Enlightened with his logic, he tamed the nagging questions beneath his controlled mask, and strode to the palace chapel.

ooooooo

A gruesome looking lot of four Englishmen rode into Paris' interior. Slowing their horses down to a trot, they passed the shops and eateries opening for the day. Sounds of bartering between wholesalers and merchants along with the rich aromas of pastries and coffee filled the crisp morning air. Each rider's heart silently swelled at the familiarity of their surroundings. Eventually, the objectionable group halted before the royal palace.

Their repugnant noble attire spoke of abuse. Notable souvenirs of battle riddled the wealthy fabric up and down their length. Each man could tell their stories in explicit detail of how every hole, smudge and bloodstain had been acquired. Perhaps later they would recant their colorful tales, but for now, they were glad to be home. For indeed, under closer scrutiny, one could tell that shrouded in the English rags sat four proud Frenchmen.

All glared, sparkling eyes glued on the massive structure while their horses snickered and pawed underneath them, anxiously awaiting their well-deserved pampering in the stables. The youngest rogue of the bunch broke their silent revere. "You have to love that sight," he affectedly spoke what was on all their minds. The palace symbolized the heart of France they had each taken an oath to defend—their beloved home.

Athos nudged his horse on first, knowing that they still had to safely deliver young d'Artagnan to Musketeer Headquarters before lulling about. Their friend's son still had a price on his head and needed to avoid the Cardinal's guards.

As the rest followed, Porthos looked at their rescued charge and grinned. "All for one," he piped up with a swelled chest. As long as he lived, he would never cease to enjoy the adventures with his comrades.

"This is what it's all about," Aramis confirmed with a toothy smile, nodding his head in agreement. With a twinkle in his eye, he looked to the others and expectantly repeated the words, "All for one," and was joined in by the others, including d'Artagnan, for the remainder of the motto, "and one for all." Although the son of the legend had his own team of loyal friends, he found himself proud to be included among these famed men. With the bond that their recent experience forged, they drank in the camaraderie of the moment and traveled light-heartily the rest of the way to the garrison.

On approach of the familiar barracks, an odd silence came over the crew. When the three legendary men pulled up on their reins and did not progress to the stables, the foreboding of a good-bye was confirmed. Frowning, d'Artagnan pivoted his mount around to face his three uncles and asked, "Aren't you coming in?"

"No." Athos tapped the nape of his horse and rode up to d'Artagnan's side. "We have a standing arrangement to see to," he confided. For a brief moment, the distinguished Musketeer took a sentimental look around at the historic buildings of his glory days. Satisfied with his visual tour the soldier cocked a grin at his longtime friend's son and urged, "Go, your bride awaits." Having spoken his mind, he clicked his tongue and beckoned his mount on.

At the mention of Jacqueline, the young husband's heart skipped a beat—partially in excitement and partially in dreaded anticipation. He hoped she waited. After all that had transpired, he had his plaguing doubts. He knew how seriously she took her duty. And if King Charles' revelation was true, that she was the daughter of the queen, she would have a call on her even greater than that of a Musketeer.

"We'll be around when you need us," Aramis added to his counterpart's comment, jolting the young husband from his anxious thoughts. He intended for the son of his comrade to know that when it came to him, any private war being waged between the older men would fall to truce. It was no secret that he and the legendary d'Artagnan were not on the best of terms at present.

"Thanks," the younger Musketeer acknowledged gratefully.

Porthos had no words, for once, and merely nodded his affirmation of sentiment. The two dipped their brimmed hats and bid farewell to d'Artagnan before riding off to join Athos.

Affectedly, the young Musketeer took one last long look at the receding men who had been an integral part of his personal heritage. Clicking his tongue sharply, he gingerly tugged on the reins and set off with haste to see his captain.

ooooooo

An ominous gloom had been hanging over Musketeer Headquarters until d'Artagnan stuck his head into Captain Duval's office that morning. "Captain?" the returned English captive inquired, clad in his ragged noble attire. Before he had a chance to speak another word, he was met by the loud and boisterous greeting of his happy captain and his illustrious father. Their excitement at seeing the legend's son sparked an electric charge that could be felt throughout the garrison.

"Look at you. You're a wreck," Duval exclaimed, palms extended upward in presentation. He was thrilled to see him. "What did they do to you over there?" he asked.

"Oh, these," the son answered, ripping a dangling shred of fabric from his sleeve. "They're souvenirs from His Majesty of England. He sends his warmest regards," he smirked in his nonchalant manner.

His father's face soured good-humoredly. "I assure you, English etiquette has changed drastically. I brought home much more than a cavalier's hand-me-downs when I visited London." He smiled at the private memory of how he had brought home the queen's diamonds from Buckingham Palace.

The heir's reaction was the opposite, habitually cringing at his father's boast. He knew the story well; he had it memorized. In light of what he had just been through, he couldn't help feeling a bit slighted by the comparison. All his life, he had lived in the shadow of this great man. Each time he earned his own praise, his namesake was there to have one better than him and steal the glory.

Unaware of his son's trampled ego, the legend's busy mind roved on to another subject. "Where are the others?" he asked.

Coolness edged the son's voice as he answered, "They said something about a standing arrangement." As glad as he was to see his relation again, it was clouded by the fact that he would never understand him.

"Ah, I believe I know what that would be," his father answered and rose from his seat, still oblivious of his son's changed mood. "I'll have to hurry if I want to find them in any state of coherency." He stopped at the doorway and turned to smile and point a gloved finger at his son. "It's good to see you back, son."

After his father left, an emotionally worn younger d'Artagnan turned to his captain. "I'm sure we have a million things to chat about, but what I really want to know is if you've heard from Jacqueline."

Martin's happy attitude dissipated. "Yes, I have. She's at the palace," answered Duval with an expression the fugitive could not read. "I'll take you to her," he offered, but then his face soured at the visually distasteful state of his Musketeer. "But first see to your appearance," he qualified the promise.

ooooooo

Louis entered the vacant sanctuary and fell heavily on the kneeling bench at the foot of the crucifix. Raising his hands together in a prayerful position, he began formally, "Dear Heavenly Father—" Unsure of how to approach the Almighty and not hearing an audible reply, he dropped his prayerful position and proceeded more personably. "I presume that you and I can talk, king to king—" he tilted his head as though he awaited a response. Not getting one, he erased his statement with a quick wave of his hand, and made concession with a humbler approach. "Um, yes, well, my kingdom is only… a sizable European country, while your realm is much larger. But still, I imagine that you and I have some of the same issues." Once again, he teetered when met with silence. "Of course you've been around much longer, while I'm kind of new at this... which is why I was wondering if I might ask for a bit of advice."

With the preliminaries out of the way, Louis became all business as he looked at the larger-than-life Christ. "Good!" he exclaimed, assuming to have established a connection. Starting with his own troubled heart, he expounded, "To begin with, I am king, and I admit my shortcomings in understanding this-this…forgiveness that—" he frowned at hearing the words come from his own mouth "—my _sister _is so willing to offer mother for her crimes…" He paused. The blunt truth sounded so basic: She was his sibling, and he did want to know her.

Sure, he had known his sister under the guise of Jacques Leponte—the soldier had been one of his favorites. His mother had revealed his Musketeer's true identity to him to levy for his sister's acquittal. And although he complied, deep in his heart, it was hard to believe. He conveniently detached himself from dealing with it. It had happened long before his time. How could he forgive his own mother for what she had done and for the opportunity it gave his enemies to slander the throne's good name? He couldn't go back and rectify the wrong, as he felt a king should have the power to do. He didn't know where to begin.

Looking up at the man who hung before him, he asked, "If I can't grasp this truth for myself, how will I rule all of France?" There, he had voiced the heart of what was really bothering him. The fact that there were things still beyond his ability to discern frightened the fledgling king. He had much more on his mind than reuniting with his sister; he had a kingdom to run. If he was burdened by the recent revelation, how could he expect his subjects to react? Many had already risen up against the royal family in recent years, without the additional news of his mother and sister's scandals to add to their unrest. France's crown could not bear the defamation, not now.

Louis, coroneted king of France and Navarre, was desperate for answers. Knowing he had nowhere else to turn, he looked back to the Christ compassionately gazing down on him and pled, "You are my only hope. You, who are called the Heavenly Father, will you not be my Father, too, and show me the way?" Closing his eyes tightly in prayer, he waited in the presence of the Man on the cross for his answer.

An ever so small tapping sound gradually invaded the tranquility of the chapel, slowly creeping into the praying king's awareness. Annoyed at first, Louis sought to overcome the interruption by further concentration. Eventually, it proved too difficult to ignore as the tapping gave way to a curious scratching sound, and then to another series of louder knocks.

"Oh!" he startled, suddenly opening his eyes. 'Is this God giving me a sign?' he wondered. His expression grew in excitement as he witnessed the panel behind the altar vibrate and then burst outward. A layer of wood fell to the floor causing dust to billow high into the air. Emerging from the cloud was a coughing figure holding a book under one arm and a lantern extended in his other hand.

"Siroc?!" Louis queried in disbelief. The king's face took on almost the same shade of chalky white as the apparition hunched over in front of him.

The ghost-like Musketeer raised his head at hearing his name. "Your Majesty," the familiar voice wheezed, and then coughed a few more times in an attempt to clear his dry throat. "Water," the inventor's ghost gasped.

Louis' mouth dropped open wide as he stood from the kneeling bench and took a few steps backward in shock. "Wa-water?" he stuttered, echoing the apparition's request. He still wondered what sign it was that God may be trying to tell him.

Dusty-throated and unable to speak, Siroc placed the lantern down on the altar and pointed at his gagging mouth.

"Oh! Water!" Louis comprehended. Hastily he looked about the chapel. Much to his distress, the only water he found was the holy water at the back of the room. Grabbing the dish from the wall, he carried it forward. "If David ate the holy bread from the temple in his time of need, I suppose God could overlook you drinking the holy water from the chapel just this once," he explained. Amending his statement to cover himself, he requested, "Just don't tell Mazarin. He may not be as forgiving."

Louis' mention of the Cardinal nearly made the guzzling recipient choke on the fluid. Sputtering, he cleared his throat and rasped, "Don't worry. I won't!"

The young king's eyes widened as he assessed the gaping hole in the chapel wall again. With the shock of the moment worn off, Louis became curious. Hesitantly touching the dust-covered, breathless man to make one last check that he was absolutely real, he concluded, "It's really you. Siroc! What were you doing in there?"

"Your Majesty, we have a lot to talk about." Siroc's serious orbs met his wide-eyed king's.


	22. Chapter 22

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 22**

**Epic Contentions**

A meeting of legendary proportions was about to take place. In the palace kitchen—gathered around the chopping block piled high with meats, breads, cheeses, and wines—dined three famished Musketeers. Porthos, Athos and Aramis gorged themselves to contentment, leaving little room for conversation. None had reason to talk, that was, until Charles d'Artagnan happened upon them.

"I knew I'd find you here?" the intruder began, taking up a crusty loaf and biting into it.

"That would make you the genius of the lot," Aramis sounded abrasively, donning a look that could kill.

Porthos and Athos eyed them both, ready to break off a fight should one begin. They knew the enmity that existed between the two men. Neither had spoken to the other since that infamous night years ago; rather, the pair had conveniently avoided one another. Being that they never shared the same space at one time, their mutual comrades never found need to resurface the issue. Yet, here it was in their faces, just as fresh as yesterday, and just as explosive.

Tossing his leg of chicken back to the table, Aramis spurned, "I've lost my appetite." He gave each glaring friend one last glance, as if to say, 'What are you staring at?' and began to walk out.

"Wait," called a sober-faced d'Artagnan, wondering how much drink the 'priest' had consumed. He'd have to tread lightly with this man. Placing his bread down, he calmly petitioned, "Aramis, I'm not here to re-open old wounds. I'm here on matters of larger importance." He gulped, trying hard to swallow his pride. No matter how dire the present need was, the callousness of his old friend's accusations still rubbed him wrong.

The estranged comrade spun and shoved himself chest-to-chest with his object of scorn. "_Old_ wounds? You have no right to stand there and proclaim larger matters to us," he railed, his breath striking the other's face. "You _still_ defile us with your inability to keep 'larger matters' in mind," he snarled between gritted teeth.

Holding his temper lucidly captive, the accused was about to defend himself when a fifth voice intervened.

"Would Mazarin's demise mean anything to the both of you?" the interruption came from the doorway. All eyes shifted to see a disheveled Musketeer accompanying King Louis into the kitchen.

"Siroc!" Charles exclaimed, shifting his interest in the entrants' direction. "Your captain presumed you dead."

"Dead?! Don't be silly," Louis answered with liveliness for his ghostly looking companion. He acknowledged all four legends' bows of homage with his own slight one. Then to the chalky uniformed man at his side he gestured at the fare. "Please, help yourself."

Siroc stepped over to the delicacies, his mouth watering. Glancing up, he looked around at the quiet room of men. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?" he said, pretending not to have noticed the brawl about to break out. Diverting his attention back to the spread on the chopping block, he relieved the arrangement of a slice of meat and a bottle of wine. He stuffed his mouth and washed it down with a gulp. After a few more samples, he wiped his mouth in his sleeve. "Ah!" he relieved his satisfaction. "That's better. Now, about the Cardinal," he picked up his prior topic of interest as though it were of casual importance.

The two infuriated legends lost their appetite for a fight and leaned back on the table in unison. Side-by-side, they shared a cold-shouldered look and crossed their arms. Each was unwilling to yield to the other; yet, both were willing to put their epic contentions aside for the sake of hearing this resurrected man's exposition.

ooooooo

Anne of Austria's daughter slipped out into the palace hallway. Thoughts of finding her brother were on her mind. Louis had displayed such awkwardness while in the room, and then he'd left so suddenly. For some reason, she felt he had not wanted her to know that they shared the same parents. She wondered why and hoped that if she could talk to him alone, he would confide his feelings to her. Whether they were good or bad, she wanted his honesty. At present, the sibling made her way to his chambers where her mother had suggested he may be.

In the process of locating her brother, Jacqueline also wanted to avoid the Cardinal's guards. Her father-in-law assured her that they had been removed from within the royal residences for her sake that morning and that she wouldn't be seeing any red uniforms. That was why, as she walked casually slapping a handkerchief across her palm, deep in thought, she was startled so thoroughly when she looked up to find a red robe in her field of vision. Precisely what she had wanted to avert, in its worst form, approached from the opposite direction. It was the head devil—Cardinal Mazarin.

Obviously the Premier was experiencing the same shock that she was, for upon seeing her, his pause was just as pronounced. As quickly as Jacqueline's surprise gave way to thoughts of escape, Mazarin's gave way to vengeful hatred. "Guards!" he yelled, his face flaming to a brilliant crimson to match his garment. "Guards!" he bellowed again as though he could find no other words in his rage. A single henchman appeared, giving the Cardinal the catalyst to quit his trembling and advance forward.

Already as far as her legs could spirit her, the defenseless woman groaned, "Give me a rapier or flintlock." She was tired of all her running; more than anything, she wanted to face her foe and fight. But she couldn't do it here, not alone. She needed credible witnesses to vouch for her integrity. To her only favor, Mazarin's repeated screams for his guardsmen were beginning to draw the attention of other's ears.

ooooooo

They had thought him to be dead. And by his tale, he had all but been to the netherworld and returned. The ashen-faced Musketeer finished his exposition on the lair of the _Order of the Knights of the Black Tabernacle_ by setting their book of occults on the chopping block as proof. Everyone's eyes gazed on it as he told how he had salvaged it from his bag moments before the obelisk fell to its doom, and of how, wanting to throw his pursuers off, he had intentionally planted his workbag at the altar's base to make it look as though he had ended up in their underwater graveyard.

It wasn't difficult for this group of battle-tried men to visualize his escape from hell as he described his flight up the stairs and back through the hidden door. They sensed his panic at reaching the unlit passageways, and at having lit his lensless lantern, how he frantically felt for an exit from his tomb before the darkness extinguished his last candle.

At that point, Louis completed his misadventure, animatingly describing how Siroc's ghost had materialized from the chapel wall and had scared him half to death.

"Mazarin has to be stopped," Siroc gravely announced after Louis was done talking. "There's no telling what he'll do now that he's lost his secret lair and prized possessions."

Louis perked and stepped forward. "Yes, he must be stopped. I will not permit him to continue," he confirmed, taking charge of the decision-making. A kingliness that had been growing on him of late graced his young features as he explained his position. "But in the process of caging our Cardinal, I can not allow France to bear the burden of his demise. She has suffered enough in recent years under her squabbling leadership. It must be him, and him alone, that bears the burden of his consequences."

Almost at his prompting, the spirit of nobility that hovered over the assembly was invaded by the sounds of an uprising drifting in from the courtyard.

"What could that be?" Athos voiced their curiosity. A deep frown creased his forehead as he tried to distinguish what he heard.

"It sounds like a call to arms," Porthos added, quitting his piece of braised chicken. "Could 'his Magnanimousy' really have gone that far?" he questioned, disrespect dressed in innocent rhetoric.

Ramon, who had been ordered to keep watch outside, came careening into the kitchen. "Dios Mio, Mazarin's henchmen are forming ranks," he expounded, out of breath. Seeing his lost brother, he added his delight at the miracle, "Dios misericordioso! You're alive!"

Siroc raised both brows in a pleased response at seeing his friend. More of a greeting would have been exchanged had the urgency of their situation not warranted otherwise.

D'Artagnan pointed out the Spaniard's rushed entry to Porthos and commented, "I think you've received your answer." Abandoning his reclined position against the chopping block, he assumed a stance of command. "It's begun, men. It's up to us to honor our sire's wishes. Mazarin's demise will be kept secret and the apprehending of his men will remain discreet. We will make our campaign appear like nothing more than… swordplay."

"Here, here!" returned the soldiers whole-heartedly. Ramon was a bit lost on the history of why, but the command was clear enough to understand and his 'here' was just as forthcoming.

Without prompting, the four legends overlapped their hands in a circle. Athos looked at Ramon and Siroc as if in expectancy. "Well?!" he blared, seeming to be a man of little patience.

The younger Musketeers complied with the invitation and placed their palms on the stack.

"Wait for me," Louis exclaimed and scrambled to be included.

"Of course, Sire," Aramis acknowledged, gladly making a space for his king to wiggle in between the Gascon and him.

All recited the legendary motto, and then Ramon and Siroc followed up with their own private exchange of _brothers-in-arms_. With the pact made, the team was ready for action.

Immediately, d'Artagnan dished out orders as he was accustomed, "Siroc, you take His Majesty and see to his mother and Jacqueline. Ramon, take this heretic book to Captain Duval for safekeeping. Tell him to prepare his men for a skirmish and inform him of our sworn promise of secrecy to the king." Shifting his baldric about his chest, he girded himself to announce his own assignment. "I'll personally see to the Cardinal's whereabouts." Having finished, he sighed deeply and looked at his three comrades. There was nothing that needed to be said.

It was Athos who voiced his thoughts. Uncrossing his arms, the tall stately man stood battle ready. "Porthos, Aramis and I will alert the retired band to prepare themselves for one last showdown with the Cardinal's Guards." With a slight grin he added, "I have a feeling they've been waiting for this."

ooooooo

Louis and Siroc, en route to the royal apartments, heard the cries of the Premier. "Come, follow me," the lanky youth rasped as he beckoned the tired Musketeer in an alternate direction. "We'll avoid Mazarin this way." With his soldier hard on his heels, he swept up the flight of stairs and turned into the maze of hallways. No sooner had the two men reached the landing than they ran headlong into Jacqueline.

"Louis!" she started, clasping her hand to her chest, feeling stunned and relieved at the same time that she had run into someone who wasn't wearing red. Seeing her disheveled friend step up behind her brother, she momentarily forgot her plight, "Siroc!" her one word sentiment sounded again. Hearing the echoing of footsteps, she shot a nervous look backwards. "There's no time to talk here. I've got the Cardinal and his guards after me." As if on cue, a blaze of red wafted around the corner toward them.

Siroc drew his sword and tossed them a glance. "I'll hold them off. Go and get help." His eyes then drew keenly toward the approaching men as he positioned himself for a confrontation.

Jacqueline physically urged Louis away. "We need to get you to safety," she said. "Back to your mother's room."

"No, we can't stay there; we can't be anywhere he'd expect us to be," Louis overruled her in flight. As they mazed their way along, he informed her of the base beneath the palace where Siroc testified of the Premier's occultist activities. "The madman's been trying to undermine my throne this whole time," he squealed in half disbelief. "He and his men can't be trusted, especially now that they know Siroc's been with us to leek his find."

Reaching their mother's suite, Jacqueline knocked anxiously on the door. "What's all this noise?" Anne stuck her head out and demanded with composure. "What are the two of you children doing, carrying on out here in the hallways?" She waved her kerchief at the two siblings, looking and sounding very much like a parent scolding her wayward children.

Louis' curled wig jostled as he pulled his head back, responding sharply to her reproof. Recovering his presence of mind, he shook off the deja vu effect from a childhood memory and reversed their roles. Grabbing his mother by the wrist, he ordered, "Come, Mother. This is no time for lessons. There's danger lurking and we must find a safe place to hide." Resuming their rush he dragged his mother along.

"Oh!" Anne scurried in tow, fanning herself. "Must we run? I don't _see_ any threats. All this bobbing is spoiling my hair," she complained as she stole a primping glimpse in a mirror anchored to the wall.

Down the corridor, the royal family fled. Watching her 'mother,' Jacqueline couldn't help wonder if there was any resemblance of her in this pampered woman. Frowning in wonderment that they could even be related, she literally shook off the dizzying thought and grabbed her brother's arm to ask, "Where can I get a sword?"

"A sword?" he squawked disturbingly, frowning in disapproval. Learning to be a good king was overwhelming enough, but there had been entirely no preparation for how to be a good brother in his training. Lessons or not, he was pretty sure that sword fighting was an entirely inappropriate behavior for a king to permit a sister to engage in. "If you're intending to go back there and fight the Cardinal's guards… I won't permit it," he protested, waging his finger back and forth.

Despite his appalled look, Jacqueline could not help who she was. Deciding it was better for him to realize that now, rather than later, she breathed deeply and stood her ground. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm still under oath as a Musketeer, sworn to protect my king." Tilting her head and cocking a brow, a smile materialized from the corner of her mouth as she added, "Even if he is my brother."

Anne looked at her son and trilled in Jacqueline's defense, "Well, don't you think women can swordfight? You'd be surprised to know the things _I_ did before you came along." Her superior eyes rested on her gawking son.

Louis' tense features relaxed some. "This is certainly a day for surprises," he submitted and studied Jacqueline. For the first time since his mother had broken the news to him of their related heritage, he had a glimpse into the heart of this noblewoman he would now have to call 'sister.' She was no different than the person he had come to know as his Royal Musketeer, Jacques Leponte. And in that person he knew there would be no threat to his throne or to the people of France. After his short reprieve, he lifted his chin and promised authoritatively, "You shall have your sword. Follow me." A kingly sense of purpose claimed his demeanor and he sprung into action to lead the way.

Down a flight of stairs and through closed double doors, they pilgrimaged to the king's private armory. Louis went straight to a tucked-away display mount in the back of the large room, leaving Jacqueline to scan the swords and firearms adorning the walls. "This is the storeroom of kings," Louis answered, reading the question on her mind. "There's a bit of history here," he reflected and removed his choice weapon from its case. Almost with a ceremonial air, he presented it to his sister.

Pulling it from its sheath, she gave it her look of approval. "This is beautiful and masterfully made," she gasped. "It has to be one of the finest blades in France." She gripped the hilt and admiringly ran her fingers along the length of its steel.

Their mother stood quietly and looked on. The wife of King Louis XIII knew which instrument her daughter had been handed. She had given it to her son as a memento of his father during the time of the Highwayman's gallivanting among Parisian noblewomen. Anne had been gratified to give him a bit of his father's history then, and she was equally affected to see him share it with his sister now. 'Perhaps,' she wondered, 'all would be well between them.'

"It was father's," he told her, "and it's a worthy weapon for Jacques Leponte," he chimed in with a prideful grin. "Take it and make your brother proud."

His words could not have surprised her and pleased her more. Standing tall, a glow graced her form. She _would_ make him proud, like her alias had sought to do so before.

ooooooo

D'Artagnan arrived at the palace with his stomach in knots. Anxious to see Jacqueline again, he had not even diverted time to check on his friends. His only delay had been to wash and replace his shabby English-wear with his preferred gray and blue uniform. In fact, he had not even waited for his captain; he had sneaked out the garrison without him. Duval's briefing that they still had a price on their heads did nothing to relieve his apprehension. Now that they were both back in Paris and that her connections were confirmed, they'd have to devise a plan to assure their safety from the heartless Cardinal.

With as many vices as he had working against him, he at least had the privileged familiarity of the palace as an asset. On any given day, he knew the kitchen staff would gladly usher him in without drawing the attention of the Cardinal's Guard. It was a credit he'd have to attribute to his father and uncles. As a boy, he had spent hours there. Dangling his feet from the chopping block, he had listened to the famous four bragging their way through food and drink. The son of the legend normally avoided the place that wrought such memories, but today he would permit the chef's nostalgia to serve his purposes.

On this particular day, however, he entered a palace courtyard that was strangely bustling with Mazarin's guards. "Whoa," d'Artagnan called to his horse, noticing an assembly of henchmen taking orders from a lieutenant. Just outside the aroma-rich kitchens, he also spied a pair of horses without riders. One was unmistakably his father's, with the tell-tale decorative work on the saddle and halter. The other was no doubt Ramon's, as he'd know the Spaniard's light bay anywhere. Neither rider was in sight.

"Look!" a guard shouted, pointing out the Musketeer to his cohorts. "That's him, isn't it? The son of the legend." At that a dozen or more heals clicked on the cobbles, and heads turned in his direction. Clandestine orders were exchanged among the guardsmen and several broke off after him.

"Uh oh," he exclaimed, feeling a rush of adrenaline. "Maybe coming in through the back door wasn't such a good idea," he reproved himself for the poor choice. Jumping off his saddle, opposite of the men, he landed hard. Leaning heavily on his horse's shoulder, he maneuvered it into the guards' path. With a loud thwack, he swatted the animal on the rump, making it snort loudly and surge forward. Both guards veered to avoid the prancing beast, giving their quarry a head start in the chase.

Clearing a large distance in a brisk sprint, he took refuge behind the terrace pillars adjoining the gardens. With his back pressed to the column he saw one of the guards run past into the park, while the other he could hear searching the portico. From the side of his eyes, he watched around the post and waited, gripping his hilt and listening for nearing footsteps.

A boot and then a crimson coat made their appearance into d'Artagnan's line of vision. Tensing his muscles, he readied himself to slip his rapier from its sheath. As he waited the scout disappeared again, leaving the hunted man second-guessing where he'd gone. Sharpening his hearing for the minutest of clues, a scraping of metal on stone betrayed the man at his posterior. In an instant, the adept fighter spun and sprung himself on the unsuspecting guardsman.

Swinging his left fist around to the man's jaw, the impact pushed the henchman backward. Not allowing him to recover, the roguish fighter dealt another flay of punches to the guard's sides and face. Off-kilter, the man never had a chance. D'Artagnan grabbed him by the shoulders of his coat and ran him headfirst into the massive column.

"One down," he said as the guard collapsed to the ground. Anxiously, he looked around for others. Seeing none in the immediate vicinity, he kicked the body and rolled it over with his boot, making sure the unconscious heap was genuinely out cold.

Suddenly, he turned toward the palace doors, troubled. A flooding fear gripped his gut that something would happen to Jacqueline before he could get to her. "God, no," he whispered the only words of prayer he could form. They had contended through so much; he couldn't give in to defeat now. Physically shaking, he bolted through the entry, determined not to stop until he reached her.


	23. Chapter 23

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 23**

**When Legends Die**

What happened next can only be described as such: An all out war broke loose right under the unsuspecting noses of Paris' citizens. How ever it could be explained that they were unaware, the people could not be wholly blamed for their ignorance. And perhaps it was better they did not know what truly transpired about them. In retrospect, their obliviousness certainly worked in favor of the young king. It kept his kingdom at bliss, while the fight to reinitiate a right chain of command raged on.

How and when the commanding heights had fallen to corruption was not known, but they had. The very existence of the opposing powers gave testimony to that inward turmoil. Yet, had the Musketeers been birthed to assert King Louis XIII's masculinity over the Premier for sport? Or had they been put in place to resist a real threat that the Cardinal posed against him? The truth can only be speculated.

Whatever their purpose, the former king had surrounded himself with these celebrated swordsmen from all over France and even from foreign lands. And Cardinal Richelieu had answered that boast by installing his own guardsmen. Like two vying powers in secret battle, each used his toy soldiers to war the other—only their tin men were made of flesh and blood. Now, with his father's loyal soldiers to aid him, the heir vowed to put an end to this struggle, once and for all.

By the time Louis XIV had come into power, bouts between the King's Royal Musketeers and the Cardinal's Guards had taken on an expectant form of entertainment for the Parisians. It was nothing for the shops to close temporarily, as if on holiday, to watch a duel that had erupted between the two factions. People placed their bets and cheered on their favorites, which generally leaned toward the king's roguish men.

So it was understandable that when the red and gray coats clashed on that particular day, that no one thought the more of it than a mere quarrel over a woman's dignity or of a squatter's rights in the cafe. Certainly no one suspected that it was the final showdown for the sovereignty over their nation. But regardless of what the uninformed thought, those who knew better understood that establishing a right seat of power was of monumental importance that day, and that the effort would not come without its personal sacrifices and casualties.

ooooooo

Mazarin's guardsmen would have been no match for Siroc's intuitiveness under normal circumstances, but today the inventor's reserves were low. Imprisoned for days in 'dungeon-like' conditions beneath the palace, what the blond-haired man needed was rest, not a swordfight. Slowly, his clashing blade found itself pressed back to the top of the staircase where the royal family had been just moments before.

Keeping the sound of the ongoing duel in earshot, the Cardinal retraced his way to see what was taking his guards so long to answer his summons. He needed more men and he needed them now. "Must I do everything myself?" he complained under his foul breath. Should his men fail him against this Musketeer, the Dark Order leader silently vowed he'd take up the fight for himself. Either way, he swore that the one responsible for the destruction of his sanctum would not survive the day—neither he nor that female he protected.

Meanwhile, his lone man had secured the upper advantage over the Musketeer—literally. Only one foot planted on the landing, the physically exerted genius had been forced to the lower position on the staircase. If he did not innovate something soon, he'd loose to gravity and take the hard way down.

Forced downward another level by the weight of the red uniformed guard, the defendant took a chance and dove for the legs of his opponent. Lifting the hobbling man up off his feet, Siroc hurled him over his head. The soldier in the chalky gray coat teetered to regain his footing, almost joining the descending blur of red. He grabbed the railing, righting himself just in time to hear the impact of body on marble below. "That will hurt for awhile," he panted, bent over and trying to catch his breath.

Mazarin heard the thud too. Within a flash, the capped devil reappeared with two more of his minions in tow. Seeing the man of his scorn staring back at him from the rail, the leader's face creased in anger. "Kill him," he hastened his order.

Siroc didn't wait. Besting one man in his disadvantaged state was one thing, but two? He had no desire to test the theory. Like a stag on a mountainside, he scaled down the steps and past the downed opponent in search of Jacqueline and the others.

ooooooo

While Siroc made his way down one flight of stairs, the legendary d'Artagnan made his way up another. From the palace kitchen, he had stealthily followed a line of guardsmen, anticipating that they would lead him like a trail of ants directly to their leader. The legend's goal was solitary: Cut off the head man from feeding his workers their orders. His comrades would take care of the resulting cleanup. Shadowing undetected through the halls, he slid his rapier out and readied for battle.

ooooooo

At the bottom of the other staircase, Siroc heard a voice he recognized to be that of Jacques Leponte—the alias of his friend, Jacqueline. Skidding to a halt, he changed direction and entered a room he'd never been in before. His reaction was immediate. "Oh, no," he moaned as he stopped in wide-eyed shock. "I don't think I like the looks of this." Mounted on every bit of wall space were blades and firearms of every imaginable size, shape and purpose. The room represented the history of France's finest arsenal, and he was leading Mazarin's men right to it.

As the inventor's eyes wandered around the armory, Jacqueline peeked out from an alcove toward the back. "Whew, it's you!" she exclaimed, relieved it wasn't a man in red.

"Not for long," he warned, remembering the approaching danger. "Get ready, we're about to have company."

"How many?" she asked, tightening her grip on her hilt.

"Oh, I don't know, two… maybe three," he guessed offhandedly as he faced the door to ready himself for their entry. When a wall of no less than five appeared, flanked by their evil leader, he flexed his tense shoulder muscles and added, "Maybe more." He met the first henchman's challenging steel with his rapier, and he was quickly joined by his friend who wielded her father's blade.

ooooooo

What began as the inventor's brazen fear, quickly escalated into his worst nightmare. In the confines of the king's armory, Mazarin's men and the King's Musketeers converged in mortal combat. Weapons of choosing decorated the walls and became a free-for-all to any who dared to enter.

Daggers, spears, Chinese throwing stars, and Indian knuckle held punching swords drained from their mounts and wound up in places other than decorative. Siroc, being well-acquainted with the ingenuity of warfare still found much of the collection to confound him. But weapons were weapons and the skill in wielding them was all in outthinking the other man. He grinned at the thought that intelligence was something not generally attributed to the Cardinal's Guards.

In pursuit of Mazarin, Charles d'Artagnan soon joined the melee. Upon clearing the doorway, he ducked a rogue dagger tossed in his direction, only to discover its aim had been intended for a guard sneaking up behind him. The man fell to the floor while the un-phased soldier continued scanning the lay of the battlefield.

He could see the Premier, standing almost caged-like amid a row of spears in the lee of his bodyguards. Siroc and Jacqueline openly defended the royal family who remained tucked away in an aft compartment. Instantly, the seasoned warrior made his choice and began to maneuver toward Louis. Mazarin would have to wait. A soldier was sworn first to protect his king. The legend met his first resistance with a parry. 'Duty first,' the clash of his sword sang, followed by the slashing whisper, 'then the devil in red.'

The blond Musketeer worked to draw some heat away from the grouping by luring a guard over to a display of chain mail. Grabbing a mesh off a mount, he flailed it at his opponent's hilt, missing. Maintaining the momentum of the whizzing mesh, he lowered it and made another pass at the man's legs. The chain curled around the shin, allowing Siroc to yank his catch right to the floor. It was an unconventional use of the protective piece, but effective nonetheless. The victor smiled and held his sword to the man's throat. His outsmarted man lay there with hands up in surrender, gawking. With the linked metal still in his hand, the king's man balled it around his fist and delivered a debilitating blow to the captive's temple. "Sorry, don't have time to tie you," Siroc chided.

From his self-imposed cage, the Premier spectated. Like a man directing chess pieces, he prompted three more fresh arrivals to advance on Jacqueline. "She may wield that sword exceptionally, but she'll tire in this restricted space; meanwhile, I'll keep sending her more men," the despicable game-player smirked at her predicament.

Unaware that she had become an object of sport, she boldly encountered the advancing men that she believed to be after her king. Mazarin's wickedness beguiled even her at times.

But, her father-in-law had not missed the sublime move by the Cardinal. The Gascon knew that she would die in defense of Louis and he knew that her nemesis was counting on this as well. Believing he now saw through the villain's scheme, that he was after her soul and not the king's, he readjusted his aim.

ooooooo

De la Cruz delivered the Dark Order's incriminating evidence to Musketeer Headquarters along with the king's plan and order of secrecy. Standing patiently in the captain's office, the Spaniard's dark brown eyes followed the pondering leader's contemplating movements. Tapping his cane against his open palm and pursing his lips outward, the silver-haired man walked in silence over to his window and peered out. Ramon watched and waited, feeling he could practically cut the tension in the air like a prime piece of Val de Blue cheese. The thought made him hungry and his stomach growled loudly.

"What did you say?" the captain turned from his solitude at window to ask.

"Nothing," Ramon grimaced embarrassingly, placing is hand on his mid-section. "I was just thinking about food, and…"

The captain shook his head with a look of disgust. "Eating, is that all you think about, Ramon?" Leaning on his cane to walk, he resumed his place behind the desk.

"No, Sir," the hungry man replied holding his head down.

"Letroyes," Duval erupted from their trivial conversation to beckon a soldier in from the common area. Looking past the food connoisseur to the doorway beyond, he gave the order, "Summon d'Artagnan from his quarters." When the soldier left, he growled under his breath, "What's taking that man? He could have been dressed and back in my office three times by now."

In his next breath, he called out to three others, "Claude, Simone and Dexter." When they filed into his office, he graveled, "I want you to mobilize your teams and cover the city's boundaries, being careful to squelch any disorderliness from the Cardinal's men." He emphasized his next point with a bobbing cane handle and a firm voice, "Make no arrests, but do not allow them to leave the confines of Paris. Am I clear?"

A stiff nod from each of the men's heads confirmed the clarity of his orders. All three disappeared to be replaced by the returning Letroyes. "Sorry, Captain, he's not in his quarters."

"Blast that d'Artagnan," Duval railed in his frustration, slamming his fist to the desk. Noticing a confounded Spaniard staring at him, he clarified, "Not 'the' d'Artagnan… his son." Not wanting more to be know among the ranks than necessary, the captain dismissed the second man, "That will be all, report to your commander for further orders."

The messenger left and Captain Duval again turned to the puzzled man standing on the other side of his desk. By the look on Ramon's face, he could tell he had not yet encountered his friend. "Your comrade returned earlier this morning from England. I was to accompany him to the palace to see Jacqueline." His sympathetic explanation turned sour as he paused to roughly pull his chair out to sit down. "The fool must have gone ahead without me. He's bound to get himself killed." Distressed over the developments, yet unable to leave his command, all he could do was vent himself verbally against the shiftless subordinate.

"Why am I always the last to know what's going on around here," Ramon grumbled to himself as his captain took his seat. Today had already seen the resuscitation of his missing amigo, Siroc, and now to learn that the fourth of his brothers-in-arms had made it back… Looking his superior solidly in the face he asked, "El Capitan, permission requested to return to the palace." All he knew was that if the others were there, he too needed to be at their side.

Duval noted the resolve on his soldier's face and yielded. The four unruly recruits that had somehow gelled into a team were not much unlike a certain four he knew before them. At this point, the loyal comrade's help would be all he could afford in his stead. He hoped it would be enough. "Granted," he graveled unhappily. "I'll be along as soon as I can," he added, trying to sound reassuring.

Ramon did not wait for further instructions. In a flurry, he was off to find his three compañeros.

ooooooo

His horse had already been saddled so the ride proved short. He pulled up the reins at the main courtyard and with haste the Spanish Musketeer passed through the entrance of the grand residence. Seeing not a soul, he wondered where everyone was, when someone sprang on him from behind a doorframe. Before he had time to react, he found his arm twisted behind his back and a knife held at his throat. All the helpless soldier could manage was to blurt out un-poetic verbiage in his native tongue.

"Ramon! It's you," d'Artagnan's voice came from behind the captive. Immediately, he released him and slid his dagger back alongside his boot. "Sorry. I'm a little jumpy," he apologized, glad he had not done any damage to his friend.

The spooked man rubbed his neck where the blade had been. "Good to see you too, amigo." He was relieved to see his friend put the knife away. "Si, everyone's jumpy around here today," he added soberly.

"Psst," hissed a blond woman from the other side of the room, interrupting the two men. One of the queen's handmaids nervously checked down an adjoining hallway, obviously trying to keep anonymous. She waved them over to her.

Forgetting their prior encounter, the two Musketeers complied with her urging.

"Down there," she whispered and gestured with a sweeping roll of her wide eyes down the corridor. "Fighting," she lipped the word.

Indistinguishable noises of a fray could now be made out by all three. Ramon's thick brows furrowed and an equally grave looking d'Artagnan nodded to the girl their understanding of her message.

Fear gripped the husband as his eyes turned away from the maid and back down the hall. "Jacqueline," he whispered. Her name barely left his lips and forgetting all else he sped off toward the sounds of battle.

"Stay here, Señorita," the taller man instructed the servant. And as the fretting girl bit her lip and bobbed her head in agreement, he drew his sword and made his way after his comrade.

ooooooo

D'Artagnan plowed to a stop before the open room and saw her. Captivated, like the first time he'd laid eyes on her, his mouth hung slightly ajar with his head tilted back in awe at the stunning sight. Holding a glistening silver sword against the backdrop of her deep blue velvety dress and delicately drawn up hair made her a dazzling display to behold. Yet, to him, the visual was only the outer framework for the beauty within the woman he knew. And she was alive and vibrant, not dead like he feared he'd find her.

His apprehension melted to pride. Even in the thicket of her foes, he couldn't help thinking that this was the image she deserved. Defending goodness and justice as herself, without hiding underneath the uniform of a man, it only made her beauty shine through more than ever. His heart swelled; how he wanted to be with her. Eager to do his part in making that a reality, he pocketed his admiration. As though a switch had been flipped, he raised his rapier and sallied into the armory, quickly putting his first adversary to their knees.

Poised and artful, she moved about her opponent, unaware of her husband's presence. With her thoughts preoccupied, the young woman pulled sharply backwards, avoiding her attacker's blade path. In doing so, she found herself slammed back-to-back with her legendary father-in-law.

"Hello, my dear," he casually offered his greeting while the song of his blade continued. "Need an aft guard?" he asked. As predetermined, he had gradually made his way around the room to her aid.

Understanding his motive to watch over her, just as his son had on many occasions, she accepted over her shoulder, "Gladly." Then, concentrating on her front and leaving the aft in his capable hands, she pushed forward again at Mazarin's henchman.

Unleashing a spin, her blue gown flowed behind her, swirling gracefully about her form. She leaned over on the returned downswing and extended her elegantly clad but sturdy arm. With acute accuracy, she delivered the sharp edge of her sword to the mid-section of the guard. Blue, silver and red clashed in a blur of color. Separating herself from the jumble, her chest filled with air. She held her breath and raised her fashionable boot to the cowering man's shoulder, forcing him down to the floor. Clearly finished with that challenger, Jacqueline looked about to take on another.

Her next subject would not prove so easy. Not in the least intimidated by his gutted fellow-henchman, Mazarin's pawn faced the tall and confident heiress. His eyes flitted over her soft brown wavy strands of hair trickling down her soft neckline. A wonton smirk covered his mouth. He had more than a good fight crossing his mind.

His looks roused Jacqueline's anger. "You despicable excuse for a man," she spat in disgust and raised her father's sword. It was this kind of male-boisterous scum that piqued her the most.

He toyed with her by clacking his blade to hers while boring into her with his hungry eyes. This man's sport was more than technical maneuvering; he played a vile and vicious mental game, much like his master. Bursting forward, he faked a weak jab to her left while moving in to her right. Her sword had already been deployed to protect her opposite side so it was too late for her to regroup. He took advantage of her open right to grab her sword wrist and twist it. She winced as he slithered his masculine grip around her waist and pulled himself against her back.

Her father-in-law was already holding off two men and could issue no help. Besides, his assistance was not what she had on her mind. The guardsman had only acted to infuriate her by his tactics. In doing so, he had seriously underestimated her strength. Confusing beauty for weakness, her cunning was made complete. Jacqueline let go of her rapier, allowing it to drop to the floor in mock submittal. She was about to bend over and fling him over her shoulder when suddenly the brute's body jerked and went stiff.

From across the room where the dagger originated, came the words of her savior, "Get your hands off my wife!"

Her heart stopped at the recognition of the voice. Smiling, she pushed the limp man off her back. After he collapsed to the floor with a loud thud, she turned to spot a familiar dagger protruding from his back. She looked up to find the face of the man who owned it, but only saw another of Mazarin's guards racing toward her. Her smile faded and she bent over to reclaim her father's sword. The man she loved was there somewhere beyond the sea of red, but she would have to push thoughts of him out of her mind for now and concentrate. Their enemies still fought to keep them apart.

ooooooo

From the back of the room, Anne's maternal anger roused at witnessing her daughter manhandled before her eyes. Seeing an increasing number of the Cardinal's men surrounding her—men that had been sworn to protect sovereignty—she determined to do something about it. Her spine straightened and her shoulders flung back indignantly. Looking around, she pulled a hatchet from an ancient suit-of-armor arrangement. She held it up and stepped forward to the nearest guard. "Put your sword down," she demanded.

Truly astonished at the sight of the Queen-mother awkwardly bearing the weapon, the Cardinal's guard hesitated. He clearly wanted no trouble with Her Majesty.

His falter was enough to pique the royal woman. In a steady sweep, Anne brought the impeccably maintenanced blade down on the man's sword hand, placing a nasty gash across its back.

"Ow!" the guard yelped, dropping his sword and clutching his wound.

"Delayed obedience is _dis_obedience," she reprimanded with an air of superiority. Seeing Louis look at her dumbfounded from the safety of the nook, she defended herself matter-of-factly, "He threatened my child."

Their tiff was interrupted by a loud infusion of troops entering the outer chamber—Musketeers. Realizing what she must look like, standing there brandishing an axe-like thing, the mother's boldness dissipated and she stepped back to hand the weapon to Louis. Brushing her hands off, she checked her dress. "Not a word of this," she instructed. "Let's keep this our little family secret?"

Striding forward to hold his mother's hatchet over the injured man, a contorted smile crossed his lips. "Yes, well, never mess with a mother hen's chick," he mused awkwardly.

"Me, wielding weapons, what would others think?" Anne added trivially as she glanced to check her reflection in a knight's chest plating.

"Only that you are a lady of remarkable talents," someone answered, taking her and Louis by surprise. Standing in the entry of the hideaway was Charles d'Artagnan, grinning widely, with Jacqueline by his side. Having subdued the red minions hemmed about them, the d'Artagnans had managed to see the Queen-mother's gutsy maneuver and had come to make sure she was all right.

Anne blushed and her children witnessed a rare exchange of admiration between her and the celebrated Musketeer.

In explanation as to why the two had retired from battling their adversaries, a familiar annoyed voice rang out from the entrance of the armory, "Cardinal Mazarin, call off your Guardsmen. Tell them to put their weapons down and stop this nonsense." Under his breath, he added in disgust, "Fighting among the King's Musketeers and the Cardinal's Guards at the palace… and with His Majesty present."

In the alcove, the legend smiled and tilted his head toward the larger room. "That's Duval, holding the peace," he informed the family. "Your Majesties, please stay here until we have this under control," he requested with a bow, and then his expression changed to one of duty as he withdrew from the nook.

Not considering herself among the royals and much too anxious to reunite with her husband, the Musketeeress fell in line after her commander. Emerging from the small chamber, she first noticed that the Cardinal had reluctantly recalled his men. In the assessment, all sense of soldiering was lost when she finally laid eyes on her husband standing at the captain's side. Ramon was there too, making the foursome complete, but her eyes were only for the handsome cad who made _her_ complete. Her heart stopped and she froze as he too saw her and their gazes locked.

She could hear her father-in-law's command in the background, concerting the arrangements for Mazarin and his guards with her captain. A train of soldiers, both gray-and-blue and red coats emptied the armory. Next to her husband, she could see the nodding acknowledgement of Duval and his motioning for Siroc and Ramon to obey the orders. It all faintly commenced during the passing blur of time Jacqueline held her breath.

"_No!"_ Mazarin's blare erupted into her dream, making her eyes quit her husband's and shift to the Cardinal. _"You will not touch me,"_ he fumed, counteracting the picture of rightness about her. Everyone in the armory seemed to spin in choreographed perfection toward the protesting eminent one.

With most of the soldiers taken from the room, her two comrades balked, looking unsure of how to remove the unwilling man of such rank, one who had not been officially defrocked. It was all like a bad dream for Jacqueline, one of confusion that she could only stand by and watch.

At the peak of tension, Louis stepped out from the alcove behind her to distill order to the situation. "L'etat, c'est moi," rang his sure voice, giving answer to the Premier's resistance. Again he repeated with clarification, "I am state, Mazarin. It was you who vied for me to wield that power at my coronation. I can see now that you did so thinking that it would fulfill your purposes. But I—" he paused to look compassionately at his sister and to take his father's sword from her hand and hold it for the Cardinal to see "—or anyone else, will no longer be your bulls-eye before the people, taking the blame for your tyranny. God is not mocked and neither is the crown who he ordains." The king moved to his Musketeer captain's side, holding his symbol of power.

Mazarin had taken note of the boy's compassionate eyes for the murderess and of the self-assured proclamation. For once, the Premier was left speechless. He had witnessed childish tantrums before, but nothing like this. It was obvious to him now that Morin's plan to manipulate the king's will through Marie had crumbled… and all because of this woman.

Foreboding failure closed in on the Dark Order leader. The sanctum, its icons, his men and now his power over the king were in complete disrepair, and all because of these hoodlum Musketeers. In particular, he placed the blame on 'the' Roget woman—the one who stood there gawking at his destruction. His downfall had begun from the moment he had first crossed paths with her on that puny farm. Forgetting everyone else in the room, his eyes beamed in her direction. "Who are you?" the vehement man croaked in his distress.

Jacqueline stared blankly at the reddened man, but before she could answer, His Eminence's bewilderment snapped into that of a caged animal's last defense. Un-expectantly, he pulled a jeweled dagger from the display next to him and unleashed his hatred at the woman who had birthed his demise.

Defenseless, the victim's eyes widened at the death-wish careening toward her. She could see its glimmering delivery against the backdrop of the Cardinal's vengeful face. Everything in the room iced in the heartbeat of the moment and she stood breathless again, awaiting her fate.

From across the room, the man who had sacrificed his life for her many times over saw it too, but he was too far to save her from it. There was nothing he could do but watch with horror etched in every feature of his face.

All present witnessed the bluish glow and sparkling handle travel its path toward Jacqueline's heart. Then, in a blur off to her side, they saw the legendary d'Artagnan step forward. Everyone watched and wondered if he intended to take the fall for her by placing himself in harms way. Would this be the end of this great man? Would he dare die for this woman?

In a time shorter than the mind could process, a flash appeared from the famed Musketeer's side. His sword arm extended, wielding an arc of silver rushing to meet the oncoming dagger mid-air. In an instant of light and sound, the room was filled with the clash of steel, followed by a chilling vibrating thud as the tip plunged downward, head first to embed into the wooden floorboard. The only remaining sound was the deep groaning from the pitiful attacker as his final attempt to exact his vengeance on her was lost as well.

Jacqueline exhaled, releasing the breath she had been holding since the weapon left the robed man's hand. She closed her eyes and released her tension as well. Unrestricted by fear, life-giving air rushed in to fill her lungs and all about her returned to normal.

"Mazarin, you and I will talk," Louis scolded the deflated-looking rebel. Then to Ramon and Siroc, he directed authoritatively, "Accompany the Cardinal to my… office."

His two soldiers found themselves hesitating this time only because they were not aware His Majesty even had an office, let alone knowing where to find it.

"I'll show you the way," the king chided, rolling his eyes and leading them out. He'd not wasted the entire time during the insurgence fretting; he'd mastermind the location of his new command central or at least a temporary one. "Duval, d'Artagnan, you're with me," he flanked his request. Seeing further confusion from the two men who shared the same name, he halted the younger of the pair and further clarified, "No, 'the' d'Artagnan." Walking off he could be heard humoring himself, "D'Artagnan, d'Artagnan, oh, how I love saying that." Being the leader had its awkward start, but he was determined to plow onward.

Starting with a meeting that had taken place in the palace kitchen that morning, the king's men had been sworn to follow in secrecy. Seated on his throne for less than a year, the brilliantly noble and compassionate young ruler had masterminded a plan that would take France into perhaps its brightest era. It would be that when his endeared legends died, the truth would go with them and another history would be written in its place—a more stable one for the sake of his people. And that history would begin now, in the confines of his new office—the former office of the Cardinal.

"I should like very much to see these secret tunnels you told me about, Siroc," he rambled excitedly, taking up stride by his Musketeer's side. He had selected the former Premier's office for his own for more than 'business' reasons. "Perhaps you and Ramon would like to accompany me in locating the maid's apartments, no?" he suggested enthusiastically and elbowed the inventor's side.

His two soldiers smiled, but said nothing. They would allow their king to glory at present, but they would not relax until their job was over. They still held a Cardinal between them that they had to make sure didn't fly off until Louis could properly cage him.

The man in red sniffed disdainfully at overhearing Louis' comment. His facial features crinkled as he walked in mock arrest. To think of the child using his important inter-network of secret passages for an adventure romp was almost… sacrilegious.

On their way out, Martin could be heard asking his old friend, "Amazing work there with that sword, Charles. Wherever did you learn a move like that?"

The legend looked back at his son, whose eyes beheld nothing but his cherished bride, and replied, "Oh, that little display of good sword arm extension? You'd be amazed at what you could learn from the younger generation of Musketeers." Thoughts of an earlier time overtook him and he looked from his son to Anne who was also vacating the room. A brief smile graced her lips, one of profound gratitude… and something else, perhaps, before she bashfully looked away from his gaze. 'Yes, it amazed him at what the next generation had taught him.'

With the room emptied, the son's eyes locked on his wife's beautiful form. The fear of her imminent danger passed. Slowly, he began to move, closing the oppressive distance between them on the hardwood floor. He wrestled with uncertainties of how she would receive him. So much had changed. Before, he had been the noble Viscompte, and her, the farm girl. He had been the Musketeer, son of the legend, and she had been wanted for murder. Now, she was a princess and he… what could he possibly have in his defense?

She saw that he sought answers. His face reflected the same hurt she had sensed on that night in the cabin. He felt he had lost her to the king of England, to something he could not compete with. Did he think he was losing her now? Or with the new knowledge of her heritage, would he nobly insist on bowing to the societal mores that dictated they did not belong together?

He approached and stood for a moment before speaking, "So, it's true. You're a princess… the daughter of Queen Anne and King Louis XIII." Hearing it come from his mouth made it more surreal. Fear gripped him; this time it was not the fear of her death, but of another kind of loss. He would never lose her love; he could read that truth in the softness of her eyes. What he dreaded was that the woman he loved would find some call on her life greater than the pull he knew was on her heart.

Jacqueline's eyes misted. Just seeing him and hearing his voice again infused life back into her soul that had vanished on the night they were separated. A moment of silence passed, and then, an unreadable change came over her. Sighing unemotionally, she casually drew nearer with a touch of arrogance. Preening her slightly jostled hair in the reflection of a mounted breastplate, much like she had seen her mother do so earlier, she stopped to gleam at him from the corner of her eyes. "Social climber," she accused in a flawless deadpan delivery.

D'Artagnan's mouth dropped open for a brief moment in disbelief. Then, seeing her widening grin, he realized that he had just been bested by her wit. Recovering smoothly, he characteristically lifted a playful brow. "And you thought I was just after your family's farm," he lilted his parry.

A relief of laughter broke out between them as they grabbed for one another in a desperate embrace. D'Artagnan swung Jacqueline around in his elation, never wanting to let her go. Hugging to the point of tears, they comforted one another. They were together, where they belonged, and they promised they'd remain that way no matter what their future held.


	24. Chapter 24

**Sign of the Cross**

By JeanTre16

**Chapter 24**

**A Yielded Heart**

Anne of Austria's heiress and d'Artagnan quietly packed their personal belongings. With their affairs concluded the prior night at the palace, there was no reason to delay the inevitable. They were leaving Paris. After dropping off their keys, they would make a quick stop by the garrison to say good-bye to their friends. This chapter of their lives would end and they would begin another.

It felt like a lifetime had come and gone since the d'Artagnans left the farm to rent their small apartment tucked away on a quaint Parisian side-street. Now, while arranging their luggage in silence, a host of memories and emotions riddled them. Much had happened within these half-timbered walls. Here they faced their adjustment as a married couple, the struggle with Jacqueline's new role as a feminine Musketeer and the housing of Ramon's three lively Spanish maidens. This haven would always be a part of who they were. But the residence had been leased, and it was time to move on to property that was more permanent.

Like Jacqueline's varied identities, each home they had made and each refuge they had sought pieced together to shape who they were—individually and as a couple. Much had been wrought in them since the first day they met; yet, in many ways, they remained unchanged. It was as the Musketeeress had once told her dear friend, Rosa, before parting ways. They'd never know exactly what they'd do until faced with trials. They'd only have to be sure who they were before they faced them.

Looking back, Jacqueline realized how poignantly true her words had been. Since Louis had handed her the note at her acquittal, warning her to guard the secret of her cross, she had been searching for the answer to who she was. In her quest, the answer had been staring her right in the face the whole time. How she bore each outward title—farm girl, Musketeer, murderess, fugitive, woman of faith, daughter of royalty, sister of the king, and wife of the legend's son—was only a reflection of who she already was on the inside.

Inwardly, Jacqueline's heart belonged to the One represented on her crucifix. Even through the many difficulties, she had held fast. Justice and kindness were the foremost things she cared about, even before herself. Who she yielded her life to was where she found her true identity and strength.

The son of the legend's character had been proven too. He was a man of his word and had kept her secret. Imprisoned, bruised and made a fugitive for her sake, his noble nature overcame the flippant image the guarded farm girl had originally taken him for. Together they had become a formidable couple, bringing out the best in one another.

D'Artagnan looked up at the remarkably strong and beautiful woman in his presence for what must have been the umpteenth time that morning to remind himself that they were really together. It felt dreamlike that they were not only reunited, but that they were leisurely packing of their free will, instead of doing so under coercion on the run.

Taking advantage of that fact, he laid his chore aside and walked over to her. Interrupting his wife's careful study of a trunk's contents, he calmly wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and nestled her to himself. She felt soft and warm in his grasp and her hair filled his senses with its familiar light fragrance as it caressed his cheek. A smile of contentment complimented his handsome features. Placing a kiss on the side of her head, he gently conveyed his feelings. "I love you, sweetheart," he whispered.

Relaxed against him, she folded her arms around his to secure herself in his grip. "I love you too, my dear," she reciprocated, smiling. Standing there as one felt so incredibly right that it took all she had in her to fight off the urge to abandon their departure altogether. But she knew they still had another matter to tend to. Taking his hands in hers, she loosed his hold on her waist. "If we don't stop distracting ourselves, we'll never leave, and we'll miss saying good-bye to Siroc and Ramon." Her firm verbal reproof was for her sake as well as his.

"Hmm, Ramon and Siroc," he echoed. His diverted thoughts refocused by the mention of their names. He kissed her again, lightly, and let her slip from his hands. Following her with his gaze, he nodded and characteristically raised a corner of his mouth. "Right. Louis did mention last night that he had a 'baby-sitting' job for them," he lilted with a full grin. "We better hurry then, if we're going to catch the 'nursemaids' before they take on their charge."

ooooooo

Ramon and Siroc stood before their Musketeer captain's desk. Rather than receiving their superior's customary reprimand, this time their graying leader read a special assignment request made by the king. "What do you think of that?" Duval asked after relaying its content. "His Majesty asked for you personally, thinking you trustworthy for the task."

The soldiers shared a dumbfounded glance between themselves before staring blankly forward at their captain. "Does this mean a raise?" Ramon asked, not quite sure how to answer.

"A raise?!" Duval roared, his pleasant face turning incredulous. "You're lucky I don't permanently assign you to dungeon detail." He tossed the king's document to the desktop in disgust, following it with his eyes as if it had been sullied. Glancing back up at the cringing men, his brows raised as though he were surprised they still stood there. "Out!" he chastised, shooing them off. "Raise," he scowled under his breath as the two men scurried out the door.

Only as Duval watched them leave, was the look of pride revealed on the skeptical parental figure's face. He picked Louis' request up again and looked at their names recorded in the king's own handwriting. "There might be hope for them after all," he spoke softly to himself. Then after a pause, he placed the parchment back on the worn wooden surface and a worried look crossed his face. "…if they'd manage to stay out of trouble for two consecutive days in a row," he dissented gruffly. He renewed his vow right then and there to be careful never to let them on to his favoritism toward them, for to do so, he was convinced, would make them soft.

ooooooo

"Are you finished, Sire?" a servant patiently inquired of the king's meal.

"One moment," Louis responded distractedly. He had been pouring over his sister's itinerary that she had handed to him yesterday evening, apprising him of her current travels and when they would rendezvous next. Refolding the correspondence, he placed it in his robe pocket.

Last night the matter of Jacqueline posing as the male soldier, Jacques Leponte, had been put to rest, in a manner of speaking. He beamed at the fact that it had been all his idea, too. Noted in the logs of his Royal Musketeers, by his hand, was a commendation to the woman soldier known as Jacques Leponte, who served his forces with utmost distinction. Perhaps the world would be ready for her one day, he hoped, but for now her mention lay somewhere in a closed tome.

Only Mazarin had been aware of her double, and he had been effectively silenced. Who would believe the ramblings of an unstable man who no one supported? He would be plagued the rest of is life with this farm girl who served as a Musketeer, captured royalty's favor and married the legendary d'Artagnan's son. Louis would see to it that the secret of her cross and its power remained a mystery to the Premier to his dying day.

Although the Cardinal had been effectively defrocked—while France was spared the public disgrace—Jacqueline had insisted on taking none of the credit. Her silence would only lend to Louis gaining importance in his subject's eyes. The nobility in his sister would never cease to amaze him. Not only had she sacrificed her title for the pinning of Cardinal Mazarin's wings, but as her letter stated, she continued to give up her claims on her entitlements.

Louis had wanted to bless Jacqueline with more land holdings. But she had insisted on keeping the record book as it was with the Roget farm bequeathed to the d'Artagnan line from the king and no additional privileges. She claimed that they—she and her husband—were 'content.' Louis smiled. His sister may think herself of no reputation, but the king inwardly knew just how much influence she really had on the affairs of state. She had effectively won his ear and heart and he looked forward to their many discussions over France's future.

On that note, he had asked Jacqueline if she would help him with a project he had been masterminding for some time. She had sounded enthusiastic until Louis suggested that they begin discussion right away. It was then that she sheepishly asked if his plans could wait. She had wanted to spend some private time with her husband, d'Artagnan, on a second honeymoon of sorts.

The sudden reminder that he was now related to the famed d'Artagnan gave him wild goose-bumps and a grin claimed his face. Glancing around to see if his servant had noticed, he subdued his smile and rubbed his arms to tame his skin. Even if he did have to keep it a secret, it fueled his boyish imagination. Perhaps his relative's skills would somehow miraculously rub off on his sword-fighting lessons. On a personal level, he could not be more pleased with Jacqueline's marriage.

Louis picked up a lemon wedge and bit into it, considering that there was a downside to being related to d'Artagnan—he'd have to be careful in regards to patronizing the Musketeer's alluring charms toward women. The ladies' man was now his sister's husband. "Oh!" he protested at the conflicting thought, concurrently making a sour face as the flavor of the citrus hit his taste buds. He tossed the rind back to the plate as its juice rolled down his chin and he choked on its tartness. There were certain consequences even a king was unable to avoid, he confessed, as his hands rooted around for something to wipe himself with.

Locating the napkin on his lap, exactly where the servant had placed it at the beginning of the meal, he plucked it up and sopped his hands and face. He reached for his coffee to wash the bitterness down as another disturbing though crossed his mind. Last night d'Artagnan had enlightened him that Charles Stuart was not all the kingly image Louis had previously idolized him to be. He had used his sister and brother-in-law sorely. "Who can a king trust these days?" he tossed the question aloud, not expecting an answer. "So tall, strong, handsome… a perfect picture of royalty," Louis whined, emphatically listing the Stuart's admirable characteristics with one hand while placing his cup down with the other. His face twisted in disappointment. In a dissipating thought, he turned to his servant keeping quietly to himself off to his side and scolded, "Don't ever wish to be king, Alphonse. It's a lonely place at the top."

"Yes, Sire," the loyal servant answered politely, his eyes wide and looking quite sure he'd never desire such a thing.

"Wise man," Louis prattled, satisfied he had saved another soul from much woe. And speaking of woe and the loneliness of a king, that morning Louis was saying good-bye to a visitor who had become very special to him over the past few months. With his sister's itinerary safely tucked away, he took a final sip of juice. Placing his napkin over his breakfast platter, the king gingerly vacated his seat to prepare himself for his final moments with Marie.

ooooooo

"There you are," Jacqueline said, spying the two men in the common area outside of Duval's office. "We looked everywhere for you—in your quarters, in Siroc's lab. We wondered if we were too late and missed you." She shot her husband an I-told-you-so sort of look, reminding him of his incessant delays.

Tucking his hands beneath his arms and keeping his eyes forward on Ramon and Siroc, he let her accusation roll off him. Late or not, he certainly had no apologies to offer for his distractions.

Completely missing the couple's private exchange, the poet's mind was on his encounter with their superior. "Si, amigo, when you fail to find us in either of our haunts, check the shackles in el capitan's office," he informed unhappily.

"What?" d'Artagnan questioned, dropping his hands to his side. "Certainly you haven't gotten yourself in trouble without us." Then, slapping the Spaniard's arm in camaraderie, he teased, "We'd hate to miss out on all the fun."

Jacqueline shot her husband a frown, not sharing in his humor. Softening, she looked quizzically at her two comrades and asked, "What happened?"

Siroc took the initiative to answer. "I don't think the captain appreciated it when Ramon here asked for a raise."

"You asked for a raise?" D'Artagnan looked astonished at his tall friend's boldness. Then grasping that it obviously had not gone well, he condoled, "Don't worry, Ramon, the captain will come around when he sees how indispensable we are." A smile reassured that he genuinely believed his words to be true. After what they'd been through, he certainly wasn't worried about Duval showering anything but blessings on them. With his wheels already turning on how to accomplish it, he added. "When we all get back, we'll put our heads together."

His comment was met with nothing but conspiring grins all around. While it was true that Ramon and Siroc were heading in one direction, and Jacqueline and d'Artagnan were off in another, they would all be back on patrol in a month. There'd be plenty of time to vie for a raise then.

The legend's son spoke up again with finality in his voice, "Well, this is it: The parting of ways. Until then—" d'Artagnan unexpectedly grabbed Jacqueline's shoulder much like the day he had discovered her female identity and roughly pulled her to himself "—brothers in arms."

Before she could protest, Jacqueline found two other sets of arms locking her into a close huddle—Ramon's moving in to replace d'Artagnan's on one side, and Siroc's on the other. Her grinning husband completed the circle opposite her. Jostled between them, she closed her eyes and scoffed, appalled at how quickly these men could forget themselves around her. And here her spouse was, leading the bunch in handling her as a male while teasing her as a woman. Opening her eyes, she saw the three men smiling at her, and she couldn't help cracking a grin of her own. "You're all pathetic," she said, trying to regain her composure. The female Musketeer may have been sorely outnumbered, but she knew how to keep these rogues in their place. With a quick upward jerk, she delivered the point of her elbow to either male at her side.

"Ow!" Ramon and Siroc moved off complaining and rubbing their sides while d'Artagnan stifled a laugh.

"Brothers, yes. Uh, arms, no," she reminded them firmly.

ooooooo

Shortly after the brothers-in-arms split in two directions, Ramon and Siroc rode into the palace courtyard astride their horses. Opposite their entry they could see the royal transport waiting to receive its passenger. Packed with ornate chests and numerous special mementos of time spent in Paris, the king's private coach stood ready. All that was needed was its reluctant cargo.

While the Musketeers sat patiently for further orders, Ramon watched Louis and the Premier's niece say their good-byes. It reminded him of a similar farewell another special senorita had recently bid him. His left hand reached into his pocket and he fingered the smooth stone cameo he kept there. As he caressed the soft cheeks, he could imagine the warmth of the real ones in his mind. He wondered if he'd ever have the privilege of touching them again. In his moment of reflection, his heart ached for his king and the lively young Italian woman with him. He knew their pain, and it dawned on him that even a king was not exempt from the heartache of a love sacrificed.

A short distance away, the blond-wigged king and the bright-eyed brunette fumbled for words of their own. "I hear Uncle Mazarin will be going to Spain to accompany your new bride home," Marie conversed.

"Yes, that's true," Louis paused, surprised at her candidness. His eyes studied her features, looking for some clue to explain what braveness spurred her to so openly bring up such a sore subject. Maybe she wanted to let him know that she understood and that it was all right. Perhaps she wanted to free him to do what he knew he must do. If that was the case, then he concluded that she was more courageous than he was. He wasn't ready to think about it just yet.

Instead of speaking of his incumbent marriage, he skirted the issue and spoke of her uncle's travel. "The trip will keep him away from Paris and out of trouble. He seemed quite compliant, almost glad to be away for a time. And who's better suited to watch over him than the soldiers who uncovered his schemes? Ramon and Siroc, my trustworthy Musketeers, will be accompanying him. After all, he'll be heading into the thick of the Spanish Inquisition. With the heresies credited to his name, he'd be wise not to slip. If he quietly fulfills his role, I'll see to it that he fades into French history; if he's not, my men will see to it that he's dealt with, _justly_."

Louis paused his ranting. He sensed her awareness that he was just filling their last moments with pettiness, with things she already knew to be true. Lost for words, he looked to the gravel and back to her soft brown eyes. He knew what she was really saying by bringing up his marriage. He was getting married and it would be to someone other than her. "But you know it's all politics," he choked out hoarsely, tasting the bitterness of his words in his mouth. At that moment, he knew of nothing else to do but take Marie in his arms and hold her tightly to his chest. It was useless to hold back the tears. "You know my heart will always be yours," he whispered in her ear and meant it.

Marie knew his words were true; her spirit felt it. 'A price forged by my uncle's meddling with our hearts?' she wondered. She may never have the answer to that question. But he and she both had concurred not to take the risk.

She allowed the tears to flow freely down her warmed cheeks. "Good-bye, Louis," she said softly, knowing if she did not leave now, she may try talking him into changing his mind. Even though she knew their decision was right, a decision they had reached together, her heart still fought to forge another path.

With gentle firmness, she pressed him away from her body. Without looking him in the eyes, she busily took the hem of her dress and turned to step up into the coach. She permitted him her hand to help her up and squeezed it tightly. But she didn't want to look at him; she couldn't look at him. Her heart was breaking, and she knew his was too. And she knew that there was nothing either of them could do about it. The man she loved, Louis XIV, was the king of France and Navarre, and he had a higher calling on his life than that of his heart. The Premier's niece would rather ransom her heart than risk destroying him or his nation.

Perhaps if the circumstances of their meeting had been different…but they had not been different. They were what they were. Cardinal Jules Mazarin, leader of the underground Dark Order, her flesh and blood, had introduced them to manipulate for his dark purposes. Neither Marie nor Louis could ascertain how much permanent damage, if any, had been done with her uncle's malicious workings. But neither of them was willing to take the risk of being used. No, they had reasoned it through many times and had always arrived with the same outcome. They were never to see each other again.

Each would go their separate way, hoping the devious Premier's cantations would lessen over time, both realizing they probably never would. But wasn't their love a small price to pay in exchange for Louis' righteous leadership over an entire nation? Neither of them could touch that argument, and so Marie climbed into her coach.

Not a word more was spoken between either of them. As her carriage pulled away and jostled down the path, Louis stood with his hand raised in farewell and watched until she disappeared. It was at times like this he dreaded being king.

After a lengthy silence passed, Siroc gently nudged his horse forward and intruded upon Louis' distant thoughts. "Sire?"

The hoof beats and voice startled the hand-raised, statue-like king. Suddenly, he became animated, quickly lowering his arm and turning to witness his Musketeers' compassionate gazes fixed upon him. For an instant, he was speechless. Then, feeling that his lapse was nothing to be embarrassed about in front of his befriended soldiers, he relaxed. "She was really something," he confessed openly.

"Si, Mademoiselle Mancini was the rarest among flowers…" Ramon began to confer, edging his horse forward near Siroc's. But when he caught sight of his comrade's stern eyes cautioning him, he stopped. Catching the hint that their presence spoke of the summoning in of Marie's replacement, the poetic man soberly changed his subject of inspiration, "Ahem, and I am sure the Spanish princess will be a lovely blossom as well, Your Majesty."

"Yes, the Spanish princess," Louis echoed stoically. He could see the uneasiness on Ramon's face. He knew it wasn't the Musketeer's fault that circumstances were what they were. And the last thing he wanted were people walking on eggs around him, feeling sorry for the love-forlorn royal. In a halfhearted attempt to lighten the mood, he jested, "Let's hope she looks half as pretty as Tatiana, eh?" The previous princess matched to Louis had not turned out to be quite all she was promised to be. But the young male sovereign had to admit that she had been pleasant on the eyes and had given him his first kiss. Comparing Tatiana to his next prospect he could do, but Marie—there would never be another comparison to her.

"If you'd like a moment to be alone?" Siroc questioned, pulling his reins up to direct his horse elsewhere. But the king's upheld hand stopped his departure.

"No. I'd very much like your company." He beckoned the two down from their horses. "Come. Besides, you two must be anxious to be on your adventure and I will not delay it. There's a grueling journey ahead and you'll have your hands full." Their presence seemed to help him, if only temporarily, forget his grief.

Louis continued talking, "When you, Jacqueline and d'Artagnan return to Paris, we'll return to scouring the streets of highwaymen and vermin." He rambled on excitedly, as if he hadn't been affected by Marie's departure at all. "Ooh! And watch your back. Mazarin may have a few daggers up his sleeve." he chided. "Touché," Louis playfully landed a jab to Siroc's side.

"Yes, Sire," the inventor confirmed, recoiling from the plunge with a smile. But in all seriousness, the inventor had no intent of leaving the Cardinal unattended for a single moment. As Louis left his soldiers and receded into the palace, Siroc watched after him. "He puts up a brave front in the midst of his loss," he observed.

"Si, mi amigo," Ramon confirmed. "It makes me proud to be his Musketeer."

Siroc exchanged a glance with his friend. "It must be a character trait that runs in the family," he said, thinking of their female comrade.

"Si," the Spaniard had to agree once more, knowing who his companion referred to. "Jacques is a woman of steel, no?" The corners of his mouth widened, thinking of the female in question. "Certainly there could be no other senorita alive capable of handling d'Artagnan."

"True," Siroc confirmed, augmenting a grin of his own. "I can imagine no other woman brave enough for the task."

ooooooo

When the lazy summer sun had nearly caught up with the horizon, the d'Artagnans loped into sight of the barn on the old Roget farm. Pulling up their reins, they slowed their horses to walk the rest of the way in, in order to cool them off. Jacqueline had insisted on riding on ahead of their luggage, which wouldn't be along until tomorrow. They were Musketeers, she argued; they'd do just fine roughing it for one night. In truth, she had been anxious to bring a closure to some past wrongs.

"Wouldn't you have rather gone to that cottage by the ocean?" the dark-haired man grumbled, looking at the approaching, small and unmanaged farmhouse. Just the sight of it spoke of work.

"No," Jacqueline scoffed, giving her plain answer. "I've seen enough ocean to last me a lifetime, thank you. Besides, haven't you traveled enough? Rouen, Calais, England," she rattled off the list of places they had been.

"I wouldn't exactly call that vacation," he returned with a smirk.

"Maybe not, but I'm ready to get down to work. Aren't you?" She quickened her horse's pace.

Noting her eyes longingly glued on the structures ahead of them, he knew he'd have to go along with her somehow. "Work?" he scoffed as she rode out of earshot. His face contorted as though he'd been asked to clean the dungeons. "Captain Duval's given us an entire month off," he protested after her, before clicking his tongue to prompt his bay to catch up.

Stopped, she looked around at the badly-in-need-of-repair farm. "First we have to transform this wreck into a suitable place if we're going to have family here," she voiced with a far away look in her eyes.

"Family? Whoa," he said, pulling up his reins and dismounting next to her. "Is there something I should know about?" His face turned sheet white.

Suddenly aware of her mate's paled response, she blushed and corrected, "Oh, not that kind of family. At least not yet." She smiled at him and returned her eyes to the endearing sight of her childhood home. "I'm talking about the ceremony. Louis and my mother will be coming."

"Ah," he exclaimed, remembering the promise her brother, the king, had made to Jacqueline. Louis promised that there was to be a ceremony on the farm, commemorating the Rogets. What had previously been recorded as the murder of a Cardinal's Guardsman by Jacqueline, was corrected to read as an action in defense of a loyal family of the crown. And since there had been no murder, Gerard's name had also been cleared. His remains would be moved from the unmarked grave to the family's plot. An honorary seal would be placed on all three Roget tombstones, stating that they had served France with honor and distinction. Only the royal family and a few others would ever know the full extent of what their service had been. And those few would be eternally grateful that the Rogets had dutifully cared for the royal infant long after the priest and mid-wife had disappeared. "You know, Gerard would be proud of you," he said affectedly, recalling her words over her brother's grave.

"Thank you," Jacqueline acknowledged as her moistened eyes swept over the farm grounds, recalling the rich memories of growing up a Roget. Her reminiscing ended with the cruel deaths of those who had once brought such a wonderful life to the place. "I'm glad you had the opportunity to meet him," she said, meeting her best friend's eyes. "It helps keep the memory of him alive."

He saw the uncertainty in her look, and he couldn't say that he blamed her. As wonderful as the commencement would be, it would never atone for their loss. It would never bring back the lifetime friendship she had with the brother he had only briefly met. At best the gesture was bittersweet.

Finally ready to move forward, she welcomed d'Artagnan's patient hand, assisting her from her saddle. As she slid down and brushed against him, she gave him a mischievous raised brow and teased, "But now that we aren't on the run anymore, there isn't anything exactly stopping us from considering our own 'family.'"

This time the mention of having children made her caddish husband return the glimmer in her eyes with a sparkle of his own. He began to move in closer for a kiss when he was abruptly shoved backward. Before he realized it, she had removed her rapier and was standing there ready to duel.

"Ahem," he bristled in check. Still full of the sensation of his wife in his arms, he brushed his chin with the back of his rerouted hand in playful thought. Cautious, but not altogether subdued, he paced sideward, away from her horse. "So, you're going to play hard to get?" he asked, seeing her game afoot.

She grinned in response and held her ground with blade extended.

"I'll have you know that I'm up to the challenge," he answered in his nonchalant tone, pulling his rapier out and removing his baldric. Extending his sword, he stepped sideways, beginning their drill of checks and balances.

"As I see it," she spoke, studying his footsteps so as not to miss a move, "this may be the only way I can keep you away from me long enough to discuss the first 'unofficial' assignment we've been given."

D'Artagnan moved to the right, still looking for a way past her defense. Holding back his move, he questioned, "Didn't you hear me? The captain's given us time off."

"I'm not talking about our Musketeer work," she expounded, and then stopped talking to parry off his first attack. D'Artagnan used his small talk as one of his best tools for distracting his opponent; he had gotten it down to an art form. But she had gotten used to it and wouldn't let it fool her. She watched for his visual cues. That's where she won most of their drills. No one knew his moves like she did. Her eyes steadily forward, studying for any betraying tic or flinch of his, she regained her poise and continued, "Louis and I have been talking about Versailles."

"Versailles?" He relaxed for a moment and teased, "This princess thing has really gotten to your head."

Jacqueline responded by taking advantage of his smirking to slap him on his hindquarters with the flat of her blade.

"Ouch!" he snapped and jumped away from her steel. Reflexively, he moved his free hand around to rub the stinging skin where she swatted him. He knew that her move was officially considered to be foul play, but he'd never dream of calling her on it.

A cunning smile graced her lips at the knowledge that she had taken her first hit on him while he had let his guard down. "Ah, no," she corrected, playfully. "Remember? I'm no princess, according to the historian's records." They both knew it was only for the sake of the books that she had insisted on having her name left off the legal royal documents. "And you're no Queen of Romania." She laughed lightly, but kept aloof.

Her play on words was a taunt from the day they had met. He had teased her alias that wanting to be a Musketeer was as ludicrous as him wanting to be the Queen of Romania. The reminiscence gave her an idea. Holding her sword forward, she spoke with her male inflections, "I'm Jacques Leponte and I don't like your attitude, Monsieur. Apologize," she prodded, mocking their first conversation while holding her blade ready.

"Oh, holding old grudges are you?" He recalled the meeting as well, when she had entered the Musketeer garrison dressed in stolen nobleman's clothes. They had their first bout that day. He lifted his chin and stiffened his countenance, donning his role in her staged play. "Then let's find out what kind of man you are?" he chided. With no further warning, he lunged into a full fledged game of swordplay with her.

For a good while they pursued each other around the pilings and stored farm equipment. Parrying in circles, the couple advanced their way to the barn. Sounds of clashing metal blades and heavy breathing from the physical workout were familiar sounds that had not filled that structure for some time.

In a forward thrust, Jacqueline pulled d'Artagnan's arm through an old leather harness that hung along the clapboards. That tangled him up while she gained a quick breath. Both were tiring, but neither would concede. Freeing himself from the harness, d'Artagnan hoisted himself up to the hayloft above. He waited there and filled his lungs while Jacqueline followed. Again they parried in circles about the loft.

"So—" he donned a caddish grin, ducking her slash "—is this how you kicked tail with sword here, pretending to be d'Artagnan?" he jabbed his teasing with a lilt. He'd wanted to use that line on her since the cabin in the woods.

"Very funny," she said, rolling her eyes. She too recalled the embarrassment her 'brother' had cost her with that careless comment. "Men," she exasperated, while keeping her focus. Blowing a strand of hair from her face, she ignored his playful laughter and determined all-the-more to utilize her advantage of dueling on home turf. From the corner of her eye, the double loft doors opened to the ground below caught her attention. Jacqueline had a familiar idea. Clashing her steel again against his, she slowly worked him around and backed him up toward the opening.

With an uncomfortable glance behind him, he realized what she was up to. In a burst of energy, d'Artagnan thrust forward, locking his and Jacqueline's blades together. Pulling her face-to-face with him, his muscles strained as he held them together.

Jacqueline was winded from their work-out, but she refused to slacken her grip. Instead, she lifted her chin and smugly taunted, "It's like Gerard used to say when we would bout here."

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth and leveraged back against her push. "What did Gerard used to say?" he asked, intrigued.

"He asked me why I always got to be d'Artagnan," she replied, smartly. With her answer, she pushed back again, smirking.

For a moment he lessened his struggle and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "And your answer was?"

"Because, I always win," she blurted, and at the same time managed to unlock their swords and fling his from his grip. "Do you yield?" she threatened, tossing her hair over her shoulder and extending her sword at him.

But instead of receiving a 'yield' as she had from Gerard in the past, d'Artagnan answered by plunging off the loft the opposite direction into the barn, pulling her with him. Plummeting onto a pile of feed, Jacqueline squelched and landed hard in his arms. Both lay there, stunned by the impact and without their swords. Realizing their predicament, she couldn't help herself and began to snicker, first lightly, and then in abandon. She hadn't felt this alive and carefree in a long time, and the feeling was good.

The dazed man allowed his eyes to dance over the exuberant woman in his arms. Suddenly overwhelmed with how God had blessed him with her, he wanted nothing more than to see her happy. "Today, Madame," he succumbed with a sly corner of his mouth drawn upward and a twinkle in his eye, "we'll both yield to a d'Artagnan."

Jacqueline's laughter subsided as she became aware of her husband's loving gaze. Captivated, she could find no argument with his proposal. Tenderly, as her heart quickened, she placed her lips to his and yielded.

The End


End file.
